


The Hindrance of Sentiment

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Emotions, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock all the way with minor detours, M/M, Mind Palace, Mind Palace John, Pining, Porn, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes his fall out of love to protect John Watson. He then embarks on a two-year mission through which he will endure more pain than he ever thought was possible. But when he comes back, will John be able to resume their friendship?</p><p> </p><p>I have written New Beginnings from John's point of view because I was curious to see how John had dealt with Sherlock's death. However it was not enough because I also was curious to see how it all went out for Sherlock. You can read one without reading the other as they work separately. They are linked, if only in regard to their main theme although New Beginnings is lighter in tone.<br/>Unbetaed.</p><p>Please leave comments I would love to hear from you.<br/>x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An unordinary take-off

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The squash ball echoed in the room as Sherlock repeatedly threw it against the wall.

He was deep in thought, analysing the problem at hand. Usually when thinking he would lay on the couch in 221B with his eyes closed and fingers steepled beneath his chin.

But the issue he was dealing with was far more important than any he had ever encountered. This one concerned John. The level of difficulty at managing it had thus gone tremendously up.

Sherlock had no understanding why anything pertaining to John Watson affected him so. He knew he wasn’t completely devoid of feelings –try as he might, he was never able to eradicate them.

However much he thought they only brought you down and made you incapable of doing anything, he couldn’t help them stirring inside him once in a while. Usually in regard to John. Why that was, he had no idea. That was an area in which the great detective was clueless –and he wasn’t proud of it.

When he had come to _Mycroft_ for advice about this, it was as a last resort.

 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The empty room made the sound echo and Sherlock felt all the more anxious to put his plan into action. When he looked at the problem, it was the only solution that presented itself, no matter how hard he tried to find others. It was out of the question his nemesis won that game.

But he also knew that this would leave both John and himself broken.

He had to do this and couldn’t escape it.

Despite his protests at being…well, sociopathic and not having any emotion, he still felt he had to help protecting the nation – and John.

Even if it meant agony.

 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

‘Mrs. Hudson’s been shot.’

And here he was. No escape possible. He had to go through with his plan.

‘So?’

‘Christ, Sherlock! Don’t you care at all?’

‘Why would I? She’s just the landlady.’

Were the situation not that dire, Sherlock would marvel at his own capacity for acting. However, the situation being atrociously real, he had to maintain the mask of coldness he had perfected over the years.

There was a short silence through which pierced John’s anger.

‘You…You _machine_ …! You know what, sod this. Stay alone if that’s what you want.’

Sherlock tried his best to remember John didn’t mean anything he had just said. He reminded himself that John had no idea of what was really happening.

He remembered the sociopathic persona he had built.

‘Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.’

‘No. _Friends_ protect people.’

There was no way he could not take note of the undisguised, outraged hurt that passed through John’s eyes.

 

Relief washed over Sherlock as John left the room. Maintaining that persona whilst in John’s presence had become a hardship of late. This was yet another proof he would have a really hard time when his plan was ongoing.

 

Jim Moriarty had been busy destroying Sherlock’s reputation to protect his and extend his territory as well as his business. But Sherlock was not of a mind to let him have any say in this, and he intended to put up a fight.

He had come to the conclusion that Moriarty’s business would have to be destroyed to prevent it from growing, and had decided to do just so.

Which would need him to disappear.

Moriarty _was_ clever and would notice that _Sherlock_ was doing something to his network.

Sherlock was not a betting man. Instead he observed and deduced people. He had deduced long ago that Moriarty had a death wish, and he intended to exploit this to the full.

 

Obviously, it would make his self-appointed task of breaking Jim Moriarty’s network much easier if Moriarty himself were to disappear. His people would remain in the dark about this, Sherlock taking over Moriarty in the shadows.

None the wiser, they would see themselves and their activities suffer, recede and finally come to an end without ever thinking anyone was meddling.

                When he thought it would be easier, he didn’t consider how hard it would be to infiltrate criminal groups, no matter how much of a talented actor he was. He didn’t consider the loneliness he would be faced with – nor the various ways through which he would try to overcome it.

And above all else, he didn’t take into account how psychologically hard it would be for John. Sherlock didn’t want to think about that, not now. And so he didn’t.

He didn’t consider the fact that John was brilliant. That John would understand that the call from the paramedics was an act. That Sherlock would break his brilliant John’s heart by pretending to commit suicide and die, in front of him.

Pretending was all the more difficult to Sherlock when he heard his friend break next to him. Knowing that he wouldn’t see him before long, he couldn’t resist _listening_ to any sound John was making. These sounds included chocking on his tears and his voice breaking as he begged for Sherlock to be alive, and that torture was enhanced by the touch of John’s hand, shaking on his limbs as he tried to find a pulse.

                It was at that moment that he started to fully realise how much his plan was flawed.

The next few days would be especially hard. John would be in an excruciating pain. He would have to bury Sherlock. Even if _Sherlock_ knew the truth of it, John wouldn’t.

Of course, Sherlock had planned to go to his own funeral. Oh, he knew that there were not going to be many people. He was not interested in knowing whether he would be missed. He wanted to see John’s face one last time before leaving.

 

The funeral was a quiet, discreet event, as opposed to how Sherlock had taken his bow –in broad delight, for everyone to know.

Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and John were there. Sherlock hadn’t obviously had any kind of will drawn, but John knew him well enough to know that he would have wanted the burial to be done quickly without any kind of service.

A layman said a few words, had the coffin put into the ground and left after assuring everyone of how ‘sorry for their loss' he was.

                The four of them, all dressed in black were standing in front of his grave, in the heavy, awkward silence which seemed to be people’s constant companion at a funeral.

Lestrade’s phone vibrated –his hand went to his coat pocket, retrieved said mobile and glanced at the screen. He cleared his throat.

‘I am sorry… I have to go. Murder scene,” he added, eyes downcast.

‘Life goes on, doesn’t it?’ said Molly in an attempt at humour that was exceedingly awkward and bordering on rude and to which nobody answered.

‘Well, I’ll…be off, then…’ he paused and extended his hand. ‘John.' John seemed to be in a trance as he shook Greg’s hand.

After Lestrade left, Molly mentioned that if it was a murder scene, the police would be needing her soon, too. John couldn’t deny the truth of that, but didn’t seem to process the information, or to be able to bring himself to care.

John heaved a sigh, which Sherlock saw from afar. Mrs. Hudson took it as her cue to leave.

‘I’ll just leave you to…you know’ she said wiping her nose.

John made sure that Mrs. Hudson gone, took a deep breath and spoke to Sherlock’s tombstone.

‘You told me once…You told me once you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human but…You were the best and the wisest man…that I have ever known.’ His voice was breaking but he refused to let go. ‘So there.’ He took another breath before coming closer to the tombstone and touching it, as if to give his prayer more strength. ‘Just one thing, Sherlock, just one more thing, please…one more miracle, for me…’ his voice was broken and he was choking back tears as he finished his supplication ‘Don’t. Be. Dead.’

John took a few steps back, gave a small military salute as he would a commanding officer. He then left the graveyard in a brisk pace.

 

                Sherlock, already raw from grief and need, held his composure with most difficulty. When he heard John’s voice break he almost lost control but managed not to shed a tear – only just.

Hearing John’s wish for him not to be dead gave Sherlock even more motivation to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal web and come back to John as quickly as possible.

                As he had predicted, the first few days were nothing but intense pain, as physical as it was emotional. He tried to pretend John knew he was on a mission so as to alleviate his own pain. He pretended John knew he wasn’t dead. To no avail.

 

                After several weeks of suffering, and getting _nowhere_ to dismantling the first ring of Moriarty’s network, Sherlock tried to go back to his old self who believed that caring was not an advantage. He tried to go back to how he was before meeting John. When that didn’t work, he tried to erase everything related to John. But John had infiltrated Sherlock’s mind, he was _everywhere._ Every waking hour of Sherlock’s life was torture, overwhelmed by guilt as he was. Over, and over, and over he tried to keep the thought of John at bay.

John, who was grieving. John, and the despair he must be in. John, who must be in even worse agony than he was. John, whom he knew had a tendency to have a decreased-to-non-existent appetite if despair called in. John, whom Sherlock had so despicably deceived. John, to whom he was anxious to return.

                John was everywhere. And Sherlock wasn’t making any progress on the criminal network he was supposed to bring down. His thoughts were constantly disturbed by the sharp pain of guilt.

Little by little, his energy was eaten away by remorse and his vivid imagination started to plague him with nightmares in which Sherlock was no longer the one who jumped. _John_ was the one who was falling to an unavoidable death. Sherlock always had the impression to have been the one who had pushed John over the edge.

In other nightmares, Sherlock was Moriarty. _He_ had strapped explosives onto John. _He_ had left him so, under threat of snipers. Once he had retreated to a safe distance, _he_ would push the button and have John blown up.


	2. Dark Waters

Sherlock had infiltrated a group of thugs which apparently held no significance in the vast world of crime. It had taken him a full _month_ to understand their importance, and to start understanding the secret hierarchy this particular group was part of.

The Dzins, as their name was, were at the very lowest of the hierarchy. However, once one gained access to this first inconspicuous group, one could only go deeper onto other depths.

Sherlock had taken to disguising himself, letting his hair grow and hiding his pretentious way of speaking behind gruffness.

However, he couldn’t stop being clever – as he had told John, there was no off-switch for that - and decided to take on the persona of a clever man, whose intelligence was somewhat hidden behind his harsh pronunciation and his scruffy appearance, made up of loose and neither-clean-nor-dirty garments, as well as long unruly hair.

His character went by the name of Schpraga, a former Ukrainian foot soldier. He had been driven out of his country for rebellion and had been living out of the system ever since. He had no family left behind, nor would he ever feel compelled to atone for his crimes for their sake. Were Schpraga not a clever character, the Dzins would have deemed him easily disposable, like any other candidate.

Sherlock might have thought that he’d shown too much intelligence not to intrigue them…but he had got into the circle thanks to it.

The first step to his mission had been successfully accomplished – if the eternity it had taken him wasn’t taken into account.

He had no one to share this adrenaline high however, and he slowly started to crave another kind of high.

Sherlock knew that John would disapprove. Besides, after having succeeded in infiltrating one of the many groups that composed Moriarty’s criminal organisation, his progress would go swiftly. He would be back before he even had time to say 'needle'.

Or so he thought.

 

Vierhovnii, who was at the head of the Dzins, had first taken an interest in Schpraga because of his intelligence. He has first thought him to be an incredible asset to his gang.

As weeks went on and Schpraga didn’t seem to miss anything, Vierhovnii thought it would be a good time to promote him…and to find his weakness, in case he became an inconvenience rather than an asset. He was a man who didn’t take competition well, even when a competition was not intended.

His wits and cunning offset his small stature, and he saw in Schpraga either an enemy or a possible replacement in years to come. Despite being well over sixty and living a life of danger and violence, he didn’t see his end coming soon.

                Schpraga went into his office. It was not an office as such: there was no desk, no comfortable chairs…nothing that could imply that business was being dealt there. It was much more a room used for interrogating people than for anything related to business.

Schpraga didn’t notice the cunning and judging look in Vierhovnii’s eyes that he was casting towards him, gauging him silently. Sherlock, however, did.

‘I hear you’ve adapted well. But tell me. Any trouble?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, Sir.’

‘Good. You wouldn’t think you’d have too much trouble…’

‘May I stop you there, Sir?’

Vierhovnii’s left eyebrow rose slowly, stunned and intrigued at having been interrupted. He gave a short nod to signify him to continue.

‘I wouldn’t mind having a group at my command, of course not. I feel ready. But will they? I’ve been here for only a month…’

‘You are an audacious man, Schpraga. Contradicting my decisions doesn’t happen that often.’

Schpraga’s head fell down, thinking he had overstepped boundaries and rules once again. Vierhovnii was pleased to see that Schpraga did not intend to ignore his authority.

‘However, your point is a valid one. I intend to make you Skotina’s right-hand. This will give you time to learn how to command and time for the others to warm up to you.’

Schpraga was holding himself back. He wanted to interrupt once again. However, this character was clever but had some sense of submission – when it was needed. And it was one of those times. A pause ensued, during which Vierhovnii deciphered Schpraga’s behaviour. His head was still bowed low, his back a little hunched, his breathing slightly fast as if he were afraid. Good.

‘And one more thing. Skotina is not a tender flower, despite her appearance. Do not anger her. You may go, Schpraga.’

 

Schpraga left the room, gaze still on his feet, after nodded to Vierhovnii, signifying him his orders had been heard and understood and would not be discussed.

He returned to his room, slow-paced with his back still hunched. One never knows when one is being observed. This place didn’t have surveillance cameras, but there were _people_ everywhere.

 

Once in the sanctity of his room, he let out a sigh, straightened his back, cooled his features, and Sherlock was back.

 _You gave smart-arse a wide berth. I’m surprised_ , a voice in his head said. A voice which strangely resembled John’s. _I want to stay alive. And not be dead_ , he replied. _That’s not like you_ , came John’s reply _._

Sherlock ignored John’s answer and settled in his chair. It was inconvenient to have to do everything on his own. So, apart from arranging in his room – and particularly his armchair – he didn’t do anything. As he didn’t have John to make him tea, he didn’t see the point of drinking any. John’s tea was the best, and if he couldn’t drink tea made by John, he wouldn’t drink any tea at all. The same went for food. He ate once, possibly twice a week, and maybe had a nibble here and there.

He closed his eyes and accessed his mind palace. He sensed something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. He could smell it. John. John, once again. He willed him away, he tried to convince his subconscious that he had to focus to get back to the real John.

The thought of John receded. Or seemed to, because not a second later, it came back full force. Sherlock was astonished. It was the first time something like that had happened. Fear – _panic_ – took hold of him as he had no idea what to do. He ran to Redbeard’s aisle, the only thing which seemed to calm him down. Redbeard was lying on the floor. John was kneeling beside him, talking to him, petting him. _What had happened?_

‘Jo…John?’

‘Well, you do seem to be calming down. I have no idea why, though.’

Sherlock would have shot him a glare if he was not still flabbergasted.

‘Why, don’t be afraid. Come to me,’ he said turning a dangerous face towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth was agape. He left. He just opened his eyes, not taking the time to go out properly, bewilderment too intense and too scared to explore this new state of things. 

He took a deep breath as John did when he was afraid of something. To no avail.

 

There was a knock on his door. An insistent knock. And soon, a strong high-pitched voice echoed. That voice was recognisable and belonged to his new _commander_ , Skotina.

‘Spraga! I’ve bin callin’ ye fer five fuckin’ minutes. Ge’ yer arse down there an’ open the fuckin’ door!’

Schpraga was back, and Sherlock had retreated inside himself.

‘I am coming.’

‘Hurry yer fuckin’ arse, pretty, we’ve ter talk.’

Not five seconds later, Schpraga opened the door.

‘Skotina. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you down here?’ Schpraga could not help but be a little curt.

Skotina’s eyes screwed, as if trying to deduce whether he was making fun of her.

‘Don’ mess around. ‘s not a surprise at all. I hope ‘t is pleasant to see me, though.’

‘What brings you here?' Schpraga asked, not answering the flirtation.

‘Vierhovnii made ye me right-hand. I don’ know ye…’

‘Don’t you trust Vierhovnii?’

‘’course I do!’

‘What is the problem, then?’

‘Ye don’ see one?’

Schpraga sighed. That woman was going to be a pain.

‘Look, if you want to know me, I am fine with it. How do you propose to know me before our first – ‘

Schpraga’s sentence was abruptly cut by Skotina’s lips on his. _Bugger!_ He put his hands on her shoulders and slowly pushed her away.

‘Wha’ was that?’ she demanded.

‘I…’

‘Ye better say no to everyone who hits on ye,’ she declared, putting one accusatory finger on his chest. ‘No one refuses me!’ she shouted as she left in a furious pace.

 

Later that same day, Schpraga sought Skotina out. He knocked on her door.

‘Skotina. Open up. I need to talk to you.’

‘Ugh, can’ this wait? I’m…busy. Ha!’

Indiscreet noises were coming out from the room. Schpraga cleared his throat. ‘As you wish. Come see me when you’ve…time.’


	3. The Art of War

Skotina opened Schpraga’s door and knocked lightly as she entered.

Schpraga shot her a disapproving glare and a ‘Do you mind? I’m busy.’

‘Doin’ wha’?’ she retorted.

‘Nevermind.’

‘Sooooo. Wha’ d’ye want ter tell me?’

‘Simply that I am sorry we started on the wrong foot, and I apologise for – ’

‘Come back ter yer senses, eh? Too bad… – ‘

‘ – but had I not been taken by surprise, I would have reacted in the same way.’

‘Wha’?’ Skotina replied, taken aback.

‘I imagine the show you put on just now was a way for you to make me realise what I’d miss,’ he said very calmly, observing Skotina’s face fall apart, not quick enough to realise he was telling her that he knew how she worked. When the penny dropped however, her eyes were aflame with fury, her cheeks had blushed and her fists clenched white. ‘’m afraid tha’s no' really my area,’ he continued mimicking her way of speaking. ‘However,’ he added before she had a chance to explode, ‘I agree with you, we should know each other.’ _Not in the biblical meaning of the term, however._

‘And how d’ye…?’

She didn’t have time to finish to ask her question; he had already taken an old chess game out.

‘Chess,’ he said simply.

‘…’m not very good. Ye’ll fuckin’ win every game.’

‘Most likely, yes,’ he answered matter-of-factly. ‘But you will soon win, and that’s when the games will really start to become interesting.’ _Not to mention that this enables me to gauge you as an adversary…I’ll need to find a way to play chess with Vierhovnii._

‘Ye’ll have ter teach me, ye know.’

‘I am not a patient man, but I suppose that if needs must…’

‘I’ll try ‘n’ learn quick, then.’

‘Do we have an agreement?’ he asked, extending his hand.

‘Yeah,’ she agreed, shaking his hand. ‘When ar' we startin’?’

‘I would say now, but I suspect you will need to refuel your psychological strength.’ He looked her in the eyes, assessing her motivation and asserting his position. ‘I am extremely demanding,’ he said in a tone of voice that was more Sherlock than Schpraga, deep and almost menacing.

Skotina gulped discreetly, a hint of fear in her eyes, so small that most people would not notice it. Sherlock did.

‘Don’ worry ‘bout that,’ she answered, trying to convey pride in her voice in order to hide her apprehension.

 

The following day, Skotina came to Schpraga’s room to learn how to play chess. After having witnessed Schpraga’s views on manners the day before, she decided it would be best for her to knock on his door to announce herself and _wait_ before entering.

However, there still was no answer after several tries. She resigned herself to enter, to see if he was in his room.

It was dimly lit but she could distinguish criminal as well as violinist paraphernalia all over the place. Her first instinct was to look at the bed, which was strangely empty and didn’t seem to have been slept in recently. Her gaze fell on what looked like an armchair. A closer look would have told her it had been made of several cushions.

On this armchair of sorts was Schpraga. His eyes were closed, his breathing was even: he looked as if he were sleeping.

‘Great. Now he’s takin’ a nap. Schpraga. Schpraga,’ she said shaking him.

‘Schpraga!’ she called as she shook him more violently. To no avail. If conventional didn’t work…she tried to slap him but he caught her wrist, stopping her hand.

‘Good evening, Skotina.’ He paused before saying ‘I was not sleeping,’ he said as if it were absolutely evident.

‘If ye say so. Well?’

‘The game is ready,’ he said with a slight hesitation before saying ‘ready’: ‘on’ was the word which came to mind. John took advantage of that and came to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind, bringing pain and guilt with him.

‘Sit down. Can you tell me the goal of chess?’

‘Win. As any other game.’

‘Yes. But _how_ can you win a game of chess?’

‘Cheatin’ I s’ppose.’

‘No. What is chess? Explain it to me.’

‘Er…chess is a game. With…kings, I guess. There are two teams…’ Suddenly her eyes lit up. ‘They’r' warrin’! They are, ain’t they?’

‘Yes. They are fighting each other to win the war. As in any war, there is a commander. Tell me who it is.’ She closed her eyes, and concentrated on the question and the pieces for a few seconds before having a Eureka moment. ‘Ye! It’s ye who’s the commander!’

Schpraga nodded imperceptibly. ‘Now, what is the role of a commander?’

‘They’re here ter win th' war. They make plans. Think abou' how ter defeat th' enemy the more quick.’ Schpraga shuddered. Sherlock would have intervened and corrected that, but…Schpraga was supposed to be… a little more patient than Sherlock.

‘Indeed. This is your role in a game of chess. You have to use your brain to succeed without needing to taunt or harm your opponent. Do you understand?’ he asked after a small pause.

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s play, then,’ he said, a vicious, nasty smile on his face.

 

Sherlock had the distasteful feeling of being eight years old, when he still tried to answer social norms to please Mummy. Especially when he considered that Skotina was making no real progress: she had not taken _any_ of his pieces in two excruciatingly long hours. He was starting to suspect that she was extremely dumb. He decided to end the game quickly – it was over in three moves. He told her then that they would stop for the day, and assured her that she had started to form a strategy, her brain merely needed time to process it.

She sighed loudly, glad it was finally over, expressing exactly how he felt, albeit not for the same reasons.

She left without even thanking him, which was to be expected. Sherlock did not care: he was ruder than that – John kept telling him off about that.

Playing chess, even against someone of a dreadful… _talent_ reminded him of the reason he was practising his strategy skills…and made him miss John even more. _Nice to know you need a conductor of light_ , John’s voice said sarcastically. _Of course I do_ , he replied curtly, before putting the chess board away, frustrated as he was not to make any real progress, much like Skotina in developing her chess skills.

 

At first, he had been proud of himself to have that idea. But three long weeks had passed and no progress whatsoever had been made. His patience was wearing thin. Sherlock had been in this group for roughly three months and he was bored.

 

Vierhovnii heard that Schpraga had taken to play chess with Skotina. He knew her well – she _had_ been part of the Dzins since she had been fourteen years old. He didn’t know Schpraga. He knew he was an intelligent man and he knew what he told him of his story but nothing more.

What mattered, whether he could _trust_ Schpraga, was still unclear. When he had called on him to promote him – promotion which had been deftly declined, with the implication that he was …not right – Vierhovnii had judged him to be an intelligent-but-not-too-intelligent man with a reflex of submission to the right person: in this case, himself.

However, when Skotina had told him they played chess, she mentioned how intent and almost feral he had been in convincing her: although Skotina was higher than him, hierarchically speaking, he had talked her into doing what he wanted. This had left her both terrified and admirative of the man.

Thus, Vierhovnii had decided to keep a close eye on Schpraga. He was not going to cause either disruption or defection in the Dzins.

A month after he had called on Schpraga, he had been unable to find anything incriminating on him. He was reassured. _Well those rumours, if they are true, could prove useful someday_. As he had no logical reason to be worried or feel threatened, he buried them in a corner of his mind and soon forgot about them.

 

The thought of cataloguing the different meanings of the dust in the room where all the action took place was tempting. But he could risk being caught. However, it was of the highest importance that he avoid being bored, and _this_ was very promising. Not only would he actually do something, it would help him get more information on this ring of criminals. However unimportant, it was in the load of information he would get that was bound to stumble onto something interesting. It was decided: he would collect data on the dust in the common room. The ideal would be in broad delight, but…

_Criminals belong to the night. Most of them have a sleep schedule the opposite of…other, more standard workers…_

_No shit, Sherlock!_  exclaimed John. Sherlock growled at him, then closed his eyes, hoping that his next activities would help him more than playing chess with Skotina: indeed, he had learnt nothing, except that she was too dumb to hold any valuable information: he had put a stop to this nameless agony.

 

Every thug of the gang down to the least important character was out of the night – gone to parties, strip clubs, visiting families or creating them, … everyone save Sherlock was out: he was prone to terrible outbursts of migraines if he was in an unfamiliar place.

‘Dust is eloquent’. If one sentence could be his motto, it might very well be this one. After spending near to four hours kneeling, climbing, adopting strange and uncomfortable postures, Sherlock had come to that conclusion.  He had had suspicions about it before, but he now had conclusive proof: provided one knew how to make dust talk, it would prove to be very eloquent indeed.

He had learnt a great deal about the group he was a member of – this gang being the source for important people in bigger criminal places being the most interesting and uplifting piece of news he had had in… _3 months, 8 days, 5 hours and 47 minutes._

He knew he wouldn’t necessarily have to wait years before moving up towards Moriarty’s group – if he had one. For the next few days, his plans wouldn’t change at all – behave as he did any other day. If he saw the slightest opening, he would exploit it. If not, he would try to create one. And if it didn’t succeed… _All things come to he who waits._

Schpraga was walking in the general direction of the common room when he heard a commotion. Intrigued, he walked towards it. A group of his colleagues were gathered in a tight circle, voicing their enthusiasm, oohing and aahing and whooping for some.

‘What’s the big news?’

‘Ah, Schpraga! You’ll wanna see this!’

‘Yeah, but what is…? Oh,’ he said as his gaze fell on a newspaper’s article entitled **60 kilos of heroin vanished!**

‘Now that’s what I call a successful operation. You did well, Skotina. And you too, Schpraga. We couldn’t have pulled this one off without your assistance. The Dzins are going to celebrate! Help yourselves to whatever you want. Schpraga,’ Vierhovnii produced a small package that he handed him, ‘here is a token of my appreciation. Use it well.’

Sherlock couldn’t accept that. Yet, Schpraga couldn’t refuse without betraying himself. He inclined his head in acceptance, and took the package without trembling. Sherlock was already dreading being alone with its contents, but didn’t let it show for fear it would blow his cover.

‘Thank you, Vierhovnii, sir.’ After a pause and meeting Skotina’s reproachful gaze, he added, ‘It wouldn’t be fair…I must share it with Skotina.’

‘Ooh, _manners_ , eh? Who would’ve known a gentleman was hiding in our midst!’ answered his boss, clapping him loudly on the shoulder. ‘Do your duty, then,’ he said before dismissing him with a wave.

Schpraga left and started to make his way to Skotina. He had not walked ten feet, however, that he was stopped in his tracks by members of the gang, a glass of a rich red wine in hand, a woman of the streets at their sides, for congratulations. They knew they had _him_ to thank for that celebration – wine aplenty, nibbles, women – rather than Skotina. And so they did, openly, and demonstrated how he had earned their trust and their respect.

Schpraga saw that Skotina was not too happy about that. He broke from the group, leaving them to party on, and went to Skotina.

‘Ye seem ter 'av' go’en a lot of friends tonigh',’ she said, her anger towards him barely concealed behind what she thought might pass as polite coolness.

‘Indeed, I have,’ he replied, turning to observe the people in the room behind him. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, however. These new friends I owe to you, Skotina.’ He looked her in the eyes, came closer and whispered ‘Our dear boss has rewarded me with that…’

‘How lucky ye ar',’ she said, her voice full of resentment, eyes laden with envy and craving.

‘I am, yes. I am very lucky, indeed. Now, I can’t give it all away, I fear Vierhovnii might take it for scorn and ungratefulness…’

She sighed, but smelt that business was about to be dealt. She tried to cool her features – to no avail, obviously – and went on.

‘’Kay. Wha’ you wan’?’

‘I could…share this gift.’

‘Don’ wanna spoil yer pretty brain, do ya?’

‘You have no idea what I want to do,’ he whispered in her ear with his deep sultry voice.

She shivered and took half a step back.

‘My room. 10 minutes.’

She left the assembly hurriedly, her cheeks so bright that it didn’t escape many that she was extremely flustered and ready to be… _had_ , for lack of a better word.

One of the men who had congratulated Schpraga clapped him on the back, booming that ‘Schpraga’s going to party late with the Dzins’ Black Widow.’

A few of the men, as well as some of the women in the room eyed him, bristling with envy to have the carnal attention of such a woman. Most of the room just sent a brief glance his way to signify their congratulation on his catch.

 


	4. Dancing in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this one on detailed drug use and explicit, under influence sex with dubious consent.

‘Into battle’ he thought to himself as he knocked on Skotina’s door.

He entered the room to find it dimly lit, a strong smell of perfume hanging in the air – threatening him with a spectacular headache which he had no need for, especially in this moment – and Skotina, clad in all but a velvet burgundy négligé.

She was sitting on a chair which she had made more comfortable by adding cushions to it, much like the one she had seen in Schpraga’s room. She looked up at him as he closed the door behind him.

‘Hello, there,’ she greeted him. ‘I’m all ready ter play…’

‘…Good,’ he replied in his most suave voice. It was not the moment to make his plan go astray.

‘I reckon ye wan’ a bit of…’

He held up the small package. ‘Foreplay. Precisely,’ he continued in a syrupy voice.

Her pupils dilated even more at the sight of it.

‘Ain’t ye a bad boy…’

He moved towards her, in the most predatory way he could. ‘You have no idea,’ he answered, enunciating each word.

Skotina the tough criminal disappeared. An almost childlike glee had overpowered her, thus confirming Sherlock’s intuition – she _was_ a heroin addict.

‘I propose we begin’ Schpraga took over ‘so we can move onto other’ Sherlock retreated even further into his John-filled Mind Palace ‘even more delicious activities…’ he nibbled at her earlobe.

He then took a step back and eagerly enquired if she had the required paraphernalia. She obviously had it, at the ready, in her bedside table. She got up and walked in the direction of her bedroom, inviting him to follow her.

She took a box out of a drawer and handed it to him almost reverently. Sherlock, though deep in himself, was extremely anxious, so much so that his whole body threatened to give in to the call of its old master. His legs were beginning to shake and his breathing to become slightly irregular – nothing that Skotina would notice in any state let alone the one she was presently in.

He held up a trembling hand with which he softly pushed away her offering, and settled his other hand on her knee as a calming gesture. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Ladies first.’

 

So intense was her craving, she was in no state to oppose any argument. Hands slightly trembling, she took a cooking scale and placed enough of the product to have the necessary quantity they would need. After diluting it with lemon juice in a spoon on which she used a lighter to make it all liquid, she took an empty syringe and filled it with the mix. She then took the tourniquet which was resting on her shooting plate and put it onto her left biceps. She waited a few seconds, flexing her hand into a fist several times. And shot up.

She was gone in seconds. Sherlock was observing her raptly, with no fear of being seen. It was the very first time he witnessed a high on heroin without taking part in it. She seemed happy, relieved somehow. It made him want to join her.

 

Face flushed, pupils extremely constricted when they were blown wide just moments before, she took his hand.

‘Ye’re missin’ out, oh, ye’re so missin’ out…come to me. Join me,’ she slurred as she lay on the bed.

Seeing her so content, so relaxed…just this once would probably ease the acute pain he felt…

_Don’t you dare. You know what John thinks of that. You must resist to temptation._

_John…John, it hurts. I miss you so…I hurt from the pain I have caused you…let me forget…_

 

There was no answer. John had left him, he was sure of it. Sherlock went to his mind palace, in search for John and Redbeard. But the door to his calming aisle was locked. _John!_ He shouted _John, I need you. Please,_ he added after a moment.

There was no answer. Maybe…maybe John was somehow tricking him into losing him…

 _I will fake. I will pretend to shoot up. Just…don’t leave me alone. Please…_ he begged for the second time.

 

Skotina was still laying on the bed, an enraptured smile on her face, arms outstretched, legs spread wide. He sagged to the floor and took his head in his hands.

‘I can’t…’ he mumbled.

 _FIGHT IT!_ John’s voice boomed in his head. _You can do it. I know you can. Sherlock, I need you to come back to me. I need you…_ his voice faded.

‘No! Don’t leave me!’ Sherlock shouted.

This brought Skotina back into consciousness, if a somewhat drowsy one.

‘Wha’ was that?’

Sherlock’s heart beat once, twice and Schpraga came to the rescue, his safety heavily depending on this…moment.

‘You are back. Good. Now the festivities can begin,’ he said, trying to slur his words as if he had shot up. He stood up and looked down at her, in a lascivious position on the bed. ‘Oh, the things I want to do…’

 

She looked at him, expectation and desire barely veiled behind the fog of her high.

‘First you need to spread yourself properly. I can’t tie you to the bed when you’re sprawled across it.’

_Who says that? It’s a good thing she’s high…she’d never believe for a second you want to do her… Think of someone you want…and if it is all transport well, just act. You can act, Sherlock. I know you can._

‘Oh great. I’m being coached in how to screw you, can you believe it?’ he asked Skotina. Although he was neither interested or aroused in the least by Skotina, he had nonetheless taken the buttons of his shirt off and started stroking himself through the fabric of his trousers as he watched her awkwardly meeting with his demands, all the while thinking…

‘Too long,’ he said, jumping onto the bed and straddling her.

‘Get a move on!’ he shouted as he manhandled her, pinning her wrists to the mattress.

She giggled.

‘Oh, you’re laughing, aren’t you. You’ll laugh less when I’m done with you, pet,’ he said in a threatening tone, dropping his voice an octave down. She looked at him defiantly and when their eyes met whispered ‘I like it rough’.

Not taken aback in the slightest, Schpraga continued his act. He grabbed her right wrist, handcuffed it securely to the bed before doing the same with her left wrist.

‘Ye’re all talk! When d’ye plan on startin’? Nex' year?’ she attacked.

He kept his cool, grinded against her so she’d feel he was ready…physically, if not mentally. John had said he could act.

‘Schpraga…ye’re so cold…Why don’t ye come in here?’ she teased.

‘You really don’t know what you’re asking for.’ He got off the bed and turned his back on her. He took up the riding crop which was laying on the ground. Skotina had knocked it off the bed earlier. He turned around after mentally presenting his excuses to John. They were not a couple, but… And he did get aroused thanks to him. As for resisting the urge of shooting up…that was all thanks to him.

He didn’t feel any sort of attraction to any woman and knew that going into an intimate relationship with her was going to be a hardship. If he wanted to take his plan into action – which he did – he would have to go through this.

Holding the riding crop in his right hand, he caressed it reverently, playing with the end of it, slapping his left hand, as if trying to get to know that ‘new’ tool.

Not once did he break eye contact with Skotina. He stroked her whole body with it, caressing her soft, heavy breasts before hitting them with it, went down with the riding crop towards her intimacy. He avoided it. Instead, he focussed on her inner thighs and her backside when she presented it to him.

This treatment had her sweaty and shivering in no time. Gone was the demanding woman who had surfaced moments ago, ordering him to proceed. As she wasn’t talking anymore, too deep in the throes of lust, he found it easier to get out of his mind that the person beneath him was a…not John. Even so, keeping his erection up was difficult – he should not deter.

Tossing the riding crop aside, he freed himself from his shoes, trousers and pants, propped himself on the bed and plunged hardly into her. She let out a cry.

‘Don’t you _dare_ enjoy this,’ he grunted as he ploughed into her. She was not enjoying it. She was ecstatic, her whole body flushed and hurt from where he had dealt blows with the riding crop, her hair tousled up in disarray, her breathing and heartbeat erratic… Incapable of speaking, no longer the master of her own muscles and limbs… It was so much easier for him to imagine…someone else in her place now that she was not really female anymore. His arousal which had slackened a little came back harder than it had been for years. He went for the soft flesh of her neck and bit her harshly as he pounded into her with newfound desire and renewed ferocity.

He started to feel a pull in his groin not long after. The not-John was coming undone over and over again. It seemed like not-John could not stop. Sherlock realised he could put a stop to it. His thrusts were harder and harder, he was taking her more and more apart until the pull in his groin loosened and a freeing explosion released all his tensions.

The woman beneath him lay sated, barely there in the aftermath of this devastatingly strong encounter. He, on the other hand, was frustrated despite having achieved…

Carefully, so as not to disturb Skotina from her heroin and sexual engineered high, Sherlock put his clothes back on and went on the balcony of her room, pretexting to go out for a cigarette – if she heard him at all.

He took a mobile phone out of his jacket. The phone had been given to him by one of the local force’s contacts. He typed in the address of the Dzins’ lair and informed the police that every single member of the Dzins would be there, along with at least 59 out of the 60 kilogrammes that had disappeared. He pressed ‘send’.

 

An hour later, the force had come to make a wonderful catch – the whole of the Dzins, high on heroin and other substances – thanks to an anonymous tip. They were too happy about this result to conduct a proper investigation which could have revealed precisely how much heroin was missing and more crucially, unveiled the anonymous informant’s identity. Between the moment when he sent the text and their arrival, Sherlock had come back to his room, taken his few belongings and made off to his next destination.

The first branch of the network and perhaps the most important recruiting-wise was down. Sherlock lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply its toxic smoke before exhaling it with a satisfied smile on his face.

 

The Dzins were put on trial and condemned to heavy fines and several years of imprisonment for their activities as traffickers as well as their minor role in the prostitution network. The anonymous tip Sherlock had offered was not enough to build a case against the Dzins, justice needed testimony which Sherlock didn’t mind giving in the least – however under another disguise: he might have a reputation for being reckless but he was not an idiot. Even if he would not use Schpraga’s persona before long, it was wise to be someone else to dress a picture of this infamous criminal circle.

However, Sherlock’s satisfaction was short-lived. Indeed, the trial lasted for a full month and Sherlock grew more and more restless every day, for each day that passed was another day lost to dismantling Moriarty’s network – and get back to John.

 

Every time his body shut down, after long hours wandering through his mind palace, reviewing any sort of information he could connect to his investigation; every time he opened his eyes to a new day hoping to finally be able to continue…it proved to be a dead-end. He had to wait until the trial was over to continue his investigation because the next important network not only was in another city but on another continent.

Patience had never been a virtue of Sherlock’s but in that case, impatience and boredom were leagued together against his sanity; not to mention the fact that he had been extremely tempted to use again.

 

Every passing day saw the temptation to yield to the call of heroin grow stronger, itching starting to develop in his limbs and nail-biting becoming a nasty habit as the craving ate at his slowly fading resolve.

Even hidden away, the remainder of Vierhovnii’s ‘gift’ still held a strong influence over Sherlock. John would demand he throw it away – and rightly so. But since his abstinence had been shaken, Sherlock felt he needed a safety net, no matter how much he knew these never worked, except to be inevitably used.

He had never felt brave on his own, his belief in his brilliant mind was just arrogance and pretention. Despite his claims to being a confident person, he very much needed something to help him achieve this state of mind, be it chemically engineered confidence or honest praise of his abilities.

The latter being impossible to obtain at the moment, he was forced to consider a dose of the former.

Just as he was making a move towards that falsely helping tool, a heavy rock broke through his window. Sherlock had all but the time to read ‘Peekaboo’ on the rock before being forced to duck for cover: his room was being shot at with machine guns.

Sherlock was not suicidal and his instincts kicked in as soon as he understood what was happening. When it was over, Sherlock who was still crouched on the ground with his head in his hands first thought to look for John and check whether he had any injury…before realising that he was alone, in a foreign country, dead as far as John knew.

Sherlock was by no means easily upset by violence in any form – and one had to build resistance in his line of work, but the strength of this attack and its suddenness had left him shaken to the core.

The positive point of this was that it had been an effective distraction from what he had been about to do. Not that he had forgotten about it – Sherlock’s short-term and long-term memory was perfect, thank you very much – but it had provided him with information as to the development of the trial. He couldn’t care less to be targeted but from this he learnt a few things: despite all the Dzins having been arrested, their affiliates proved to be resentful and to know that a mole had infiltrated their network…and where to find said mole. He had to be extra careful with this group and mindful that they were aware of actions against them.

 

Silence settled in Sherlock’s room as the car retreated, leaving him to his thoughts. The incident, aside from distracting him from relapsing, brought him back on track, focussed on the case as he ought to have been.

Sherlock sprang to his mind palace and resumed working, making connections where blurred links were mere moments before.

If the Dzins’ friends were about, it was highly probable Schpraga had not been privy to all their secrets, which was more than possible as he had been a member for only three short months.

He had heard whispers but had never paid them any mind – until he had read the dust and discovered that important people were members of that branch. It seemed that politics and criminality had wed. Sherlock made a mental note to inform his brother about this little fact.

He went through two more attacks before informing Mycroft. One attack could be a coincidence, but the universe rarely being so lazy a third one was to be expected. Politics were not his forte but were Mycroft’s. And his job. He was the one who really needed to deal with it. After all, Sherlock had done all the legwork his elder brother so abhorred.

Once the British government had been duly informed and started to act upon the information they had been given, Sherlock quickly and quietly left this rough country for another one, colder and farther away.

His travel to that distant country took him several months as he travelled in the shadows so that nobody ever recognised him. To the people he did meet, he told them that his name was Bill and that he went on foot looking for redemption on the top of the world _which isn’t very far from the truth…_

As he could play any role to the perfection, that of the atoning Bill was a tale people were not keen to question.

 

More often than not however, Sherlock was alone with his thoughts. Once he would have rejoiced at being on his own. Now he despised it and longed for home and the sweet smells of 221B, John’s admiration and company, Mrs. Hudson’s constant mothering, even the attention of Molly Hooper. He missed home and everything the word stood for.

When he finally arrived near the mountains, winter had settled: the light had diminished significantly, the nights had grown much colder than they had any right to and his mood had sunken.

Sherlock found himself in a pit of darkness surrounded by monsters his ever vivid imagination was eager to bring forth to his weak mind. For he had grown weak without the care of his… dare he say it? _Family._ A family is what they were even if they didn’t share blood ties.

Being with these few people had made him better. John Watson had made him human. When he had jumped off that roof on this wretched day, it was out of love.

And now, alone in the darkness of his thoughts, he was becoming a mere echo of what he once was. His hopes of going back to John had been crushed when he had heard bells in the distance signalling the passing of a new year.

All he wanted was to be happy in his nest in 221B.

As lonely as he was, he could only settle for content…but to do that, he had to break a promise he had made several times to others, to John and to himself much later when he had realised how much more he craved for John’s approval than for the wretched powder that would bring him to numbness and contentment. His body did not crave it, not really. His mind, however, was growing more and more restless whenever intense boredom took him – that is to say, most of the time. He felt so empty and had been inactive for so many months that the drugs’ call was getting stronger and stronger and his will was faltering, melting as snow under the warmth of spring.

Spring was nowhere near arriving and he would have time to sober up if he ever returned home…

 

He broke in an empty house, took the necessary tools he would need and returned to his hiding place. Sitting as comfortably as he could he started to set his mind to the chase of the dragon in the hope it would help soothe his mind.

 

When he awoke after a long chase, Sherlock felt relaxed. His brain had stopped worrying him and he had found his self-confidence again. Hope was still too far away for him to catch but self-confidence was there.

He had fought monsters through the darkness of his chase but he didn’t feel exhausted. It was as if he had awoken from a never-ending nightmare, sweat cooling on his back and between his shoulder blades, but somehow at the ready to fend off foes if and when he would find foes.

Around him, the room was still dark. He had no idea how much time had passed. However, he was fairly certain that no more than a few hours had gone by.

He knew from experience that one could get lost in the chase and not come back for several days. He had thought of that before carefully hiding part of his poison should the need arise…

He decided to stand and continue his journey…but the world suddenly spun around him, as if he had lost all sense of balance. He fell and a blinding headache took hold of him. Sharp knives tore his eyes out, hideous needles pierced through his skull and a gut-wrenching pain exploded in his stomach and bowels.

He retched and retched as a reflex to eliminate the pain. To no avail: it grew fiercer and fiercer, rendering him incapable of doing anything. Sherlock was a slave to his body. He thought to retreat to his mind palace to hide from the pain. But the walls of his palace were bleeding and he couldn’t go anywhere: all entries were locked to him as he had blurred his mind with a poison his body had grown unaccustomed to.

Blinded and incapacitated by pain, unable to even think, he closed his eyes and curled around himself, underneath a blanket he had stolen.

The pain did not subside. It still throbbed behind his eyes and wrenched at his guts and limbs. He could only hope sleep would take him and lull his agony. Behind his eyelids he could only see white piercing dots of pain, each a needle piercing through his eyes. He could not open them as even the faintest of lights would burn him.

 

Hours had passed. He awoke to the stench of his own waste and the pain was still there. Not as strong as when he first came out of his chase but still present nonetheless. He could now think. And knew why he was so sick.

He had grown unaccustomed to the product and his body was fighting off the poison his mind needed. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stood up. He was in need of a shower. He didn’t feel strong enough to clean the mess he had made, but surely it would all be better once he had washed and cleansed himself from the stench and the remnants of his sin. However much it would hurt to hear water running, he needed it.

 

After he had washed himself as thoroughly as he could, he felt invigorated and strong enough to wander outside if only to escape the dreadful state of the place he had used. He was cold without his trademark Belstaff coat. He did have a coat, but nothing near as warm as it and winter was harsh; it would be even harsher the closer he got to his destination.


	5. Fresh Air

Having a Mind Palace was extremely handy: he did not have to carry a thousand of items with him wherever he went. He just needed clothes, a warm coat, a magnifying glass, a blanket and a lighter – even if he could find these last two things anywhere. He decided to set off to his next destination, the one which proved to be the most influential in Moriarty’s network. It lay at the top of a dangerous, snow-capped mountain and rumour had it that any criminal was worthy to enter – provided they survive climbing. In the throes of winter, the cold and the wind had already paired at the bottom to weaken those who would try to make the ascension.

Sherlock evaluated the situation and reflected that he may have presumed a bit much on his physical prowess. He stopped at several different shops and bought the necessary equipment and provisions. Loath as he was to eat, he was aware that he needed his body to keep its strength hence his stocking up on a water skin already filled and highly proteinated dry food.

The sun had set when his preparations were ready – all the better to keep his incognito status.

 

At first, the ascent was easy if a little cold. After a little while, he could clearly see the mist of his breathing in the night and feel lightly out of breath – although it was nothing too hard to bear. Sherlock thought it best to progress quickly because he strongly despised the cold and wanted _needed_ to finish his mission. _Queen and Country. What a ludicrous idea._ He doubted that even John, in all his righteousness and patriotism would label this mission as essential – and more to the point, Sherlock could not imagine John forgiving him for this betrayal.

By the time Sherlock was thinking of John again, his body was showing signs of fatigue. _If I can still use my brain … my body’s just playing tricks on me_ , he reasoned and continued.

Through the ever growing colder temperature and the lashes the blizzard dealt him, Sherlock was soon unable to think even about his second favourite subject not to mention the first and foremost feature of interest in his life. He had come to the conclusion that thinking about John Watson would inevitably lead him down a treacherous path – both metaphorically and literally. It wouldn’t do to die because of John Watson when he had – in appearance at least – already died _for_ him; the irony would be too cruel.

His fingers were numb, almost frozen as well as his limbs and, when he had found it amusing to see his breath in the cold dark night, drawing breath painfully hurt his ribcage.

_I ought to stop. Rest._

He closed his eyes.

 

He jolted up when he felt the warmth of a breath on his face. A large grey feline was licking his face. Sherlock, while having a tendency not to care about personal space was very mindful of his own and had the instinct of backing off. The beast, uninterested in this human which was very much alive went on hunting. It was only minutes later that Sherlock realised that this potentially dangerous encounter with a snow leopard had saved his life. From the beast’s habitat in winter, he reasoned that he was not too far from his destination. Mentally thanking the cat, Sherlock continued his ascent until finding a series of wooden signposts labelled with a snake which could at this kind of altitude only be the thermophis baileyi _._

When he was living with and working for the Dzins he had heard whispers about a terrifying power in the east called Shé.

At that time he had not listened more closely for information on it but had only taken note of it and filed it in his Mind Palace for later in the hope he would hear other mentions of Shé. However, it was the only time someone spoke about this particular power. He followed the signs and resolved to look for whatever myths and beliefs he knew on the snakes in his Mind Palace.

 

The ascension was proving difficult for his body. The higher he went, the more light-headed he became. Accessing his Mind Palace was more and more difficult. He knew he had to verify the lore on Najas but retrieving the information was an extremely arduous task. All he could recall was that snakes were symbols of death and rebirth as he stumbled on a snake shed and Najas usually were treasure keepers. He sat down and thought of going into his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes.

Sherlock jolted awake. It was cold beneath him. He realised that he had lost consciousness in the snow. The coldness of the area rendered it extremely unlikely for him to come to his senses on his own. True enough, he was being nudged with a rod, as if someone was checking whether he was still alive. The rod was wielded by a young man probably in his mid-twenties.

Like most people from that part of the world, he was a short dark-haired man with dry tanned skin. Needless to say that most of these characteristics were not unlike those of a certain army doctor.

However, unlike John, he didn’t have deep grey bagged eyes; neither could he read him like a book. All he could deduce about the man was his age, what he did for a living _shepherd as the goat hairs on his trousers clearly indicate_ and observe from the tense bearing he assumed that he was a young man with heavy responsibilities. Sherlock further deduced that he had come to these responsibilities too early: his youth was to be taken into account but the deep sadness on his face gave him a serious hint. It was possible that someone from his family had passed away and he had to take over the burden of family man.

Grunting, Sherlock turned on his side and attempted to get up. To no avail: his body had considerably weakened as it burnt fat to keep his vital organs going.

The prodding stopped and soon Sherlock was manhandled to his feet by the youth.

 

‘You shouldn’t take a nap in the snow y’know.’ Sherlock couldn’t refrain from answering ‘Obviously.’

The young man chuckled. ‘You’re a funny one. What are you doing around here anyway? That’s not the sort of place for someone like you, is it? Comin’ from a city, are you? I’ve always wanted to go but always had obligations.’ _Clearly._

He fell silent for a moment, eyes off in the distance, as if looking for a long-lost dream. ‘So, where are you headed to, anyway?’

 

Despite having a somewhat slowed brain, Sherlock took note of everything the young man said – and of everything he did not say.

‘Are you familiar with the location…?’

‘Sonam. Yeah, I am, seeing as I grew up here and haven’t left…’

‘You might well be able to help me, then.’

‘Sure am! But first, what you need is a hot beverage. And chocolate. I never leave home without enough provisions in case there’s an avalanche and I’m cut off from the village. Don’t worry, I’ve plenty of chocolate as well. And tea,’ he said barely breathing through his excitement as he took the chocolate bars out of his backpack and a gigantic thermos.

Sherlock took the chocolate bars without much conviction: since he jolted awake, his stomach was nothing if not upset. And despite being undercover and living through dangerous situations, his appetite had not grown in the slightest since departing from Baker Street. If anything it was even less developed than it used to be. Sherlock knew how John would react, admonishing him for being so careless and endangering himself - more than was his habit. He took the chocolate bar in a vain attempt to quell John’s anger. However, the second he bit into the chocolate, he sensed John wearing a smug smile as a flow of energy surged through him. It was not as ecstatic a moment as when he relapsed but it was close. The fact that there would be no ensuing guilt helped tremendously.

Awoken by incoming food, his mouth began to water to help the aliments go down to his stomach. As disagreeable a sensation it was for Sherlock, he quickly opened a second and a third chocolate bar.

‘Hey mate,’ said Sonam cheerfully, ‘don’t forget to drink tea, eh?’

Sherlock hummed in agreement instead of replying with a proper, articulate sentence: his thoughts were focussed on the delicious food melting in his mouth.

Once Sonam declared Sherlock’s body strong enough, they left and continued ascending the mountain. Sherlock had told him that he was looking for a place where he could retreat into himself and find his centre again _whatever that meant._

Sonam seemed to have understood what kind of place ‘Bill’ was looking for because he became a little less joyful and wore the expression of someone who was working when they thought they had just found another more agreeable activity to do.

Sonam led Sherlock through the rest of the way and became considerably less chatty as they seemed to draw closer to Shé’s hide. Having seen him so open _as much as…better not think about him just now. I have to keep my wits about_ _me_ , the change in Sonam spoke volumes. He obviously disliked his job but was somehow forced to do it _possibly to keep his family safe_.

Sherlock didn’t know just yet whether he could use this to his advantage.


	6. Crumbling walls

An unassuming wooden hut stood in the snow. It even seemed to be derelict. Goats were eating and lying on the ground. This didn’t conform to any picture one might have on criminal lairs.

Sherlock knew better.

Looking at the door handle, he noticed a small carved snake but also that the handle was often used: there was grime on its bottom third and the brown paint had faded into a pale wheatish brown.

Sherlock understood why it was such a hard place to go to and why only the most motivated criminals would go to the trouble of making the journey to this lair.

‘Here is the place you’re looking for.’

‘It doesn’t look – ‘

‘– No, it doesn’t. But it will help you fulfil your wish.’ _He knows what I want, I know what he does there…It really couldn’t be any more obvious. Why bother speak half-truths, I wonder._

 

Sonam went to the door and knocked all the while saying things in the like of _Persistence is the key_ or _Only he who makes the effort is rewarded._

The door opened to a warm little room in which a fire was roaring. A few people were in the room. They seemed to be there to entertain the lost traveller with the idea that they had simply stumbled on a normal, calm and non-threatening hut. An old couple whose faces were tanned and dried by the sun and low atmospheric pressure made it look like a lost, remote family home. Their frail bodies, hidden underneath monkish robes helped conveying the idea of the absence of danger. The old woman was standing by the fire, presumably cooking or something of the sort while her companion was peeling off potatoes on a nearby wooden table. A battered middle-aged woman was sitting and doing needlework not far from the fire. Her hunched form implied that age had well started on its work and her proximity to the fire indicated that her sight was not as efficient as that of a 20-year-old person. She seemed to be sitting in a very close proximity to the fire, as if to ward off cold against which her heavy woollen robe didn’t seem to suffice.

Had Sherlock not noticed the small snake carved on the door handle nor the sharp reflexes from the people in the room, he would have assumed that this was not a criminals’ lair. It was a very efficient deception to the unobservant eye. _Smoke and mirrors._

Sherlock saw all this in a handful of seconds when he would have from just one look two years before when he was at the top of his game, his body not weakened by exertion and his mind not crippled by guilt over his recent…actions.

_‘Yeah. You’re slipping, mate.’_

_‘I am sorry. I wish I were already home…’_ Sherlock said, standing against the walls of his Mind Palace

 _‘Yeah, yeah,’_ John stood from the wall he was leaning against. _‘You’re taking your sweet time, aren’t you Sherlock? Getting off with bloody what’s-her-name…I thought this was ‘just transport’?!’_

_‘I am – ‘_

_‘– sorry, yeah. Heard that one before. You’re a flipping machine, Sherlock, that’s what you are.’_

_‘Can we not do this now?’_

_‘Oh, you’re busy now, aren’t you? Using people, eh?’_

_‘John…’_

_‘How could you?’_

The walls to his Mind Palace were now visibly shaking forcefully as if it were soon to face a Richter 7 earthquake.

 _‘John…’_ Sherlock began in a wavering voice.

_‘Don’t you ‘John’ me, you selfish, heartless bastard! I know what you’ve done – and who you’ve done, for that matter. I thought you had more brains than that.’_

The entrance to his Mind Palace was shaking even more.

_‘John, please…the mission… I need to – ‘_

_‘– complete it. You think that if you will me away I’ll just leave you in peace so you can do your bloody stuff and fucking shoot up and forget everything? You think I’ll ever forget and forgive that umpteenth betrayal?’_

_‘John – ‘_

_‘– think again. Mate.’_ John said, seething with rage, storming into Sherlock’s Mind Palace and slamming the door shut in his face.

Sherlock, bewildered by John’s behaviour, sprung after him a few seconds too late and was met with a locked entrance. He felt frozen as if the world had stopped turning when the power of his system had shut down, when John had judged him unworthy of his forgiveness. He threw himself against the heavy doors, slammed his fists against them repeatedly, shouted John’s name over and over again, begging him to open the doors.

 

On the outside, Sherlock had gone completely still from the moment John’s voice had started shouting at him. Unfortunately, he was the only one to be in that state, the other people in the hut whose smiling faces had turned towards the door when it creaked open were now alternatively looking at Sherlock and each other in a really uneasy way. Witnessing the lively young man with whom he had ascended turn catatonic was disturbing for Sonam so much so that he himself was frozen in shock. The elders in the rooms, though unsettled came back to their senses quite quickly and arranged for Sherlock to sit by the fire.

‘First time you bring us a loon, lad. I hope that it is temporary, whatever his condition is.’

‘He…he really didn’t show any forewarning sign, Nawang.’

‘But you’re sure he’d be willing to submit to Shé?’

‘I can’t be sure of anything but he – ‘

‘– did he say he wanted to be part of Shé in non-equivocal words?’

‘Not as such, no – ‘

‘– then why did you bring him here, Sonam?’ asked Nawang softly yet in a voice laden with reproach. Sonam couldn’t help but wince whenever this tone of voice was used. However, being in charge of his family meant that he had to be strong and he replied with as much confidence as he could muster.

‘I can just feel the man is one of us. He comes from a city. He was willing to climb all the way up here. Something in his stance just yells ‘criminal’. And he has the features of someone who knows what’s what. Someone important, I think.’

‘Nevertheless, Sonam. Why do you insist on bringing people on the chance they’ll be what you think they are?’

Upon seeing the look of indignation on Sonam’s face, Nawang raised his hand in a calming gesture. ‘However this,’ he said, waving in the general direction of Sherlock, ‘seems to be obvious to you, it is not for us. We need proof. That’s why you have to ask the question. And if they can’t answer the question…well they can’t be allowed to continue, can they?’

‘Yes. Of course. Forgive me.’

‘Hm. If that Schpraga of yours turns out to be what you thought he was I will consider it.’

‘Thank you, Nawang,’ answered Sonam, bowing his head in submission.

‘In the meantime, make yourself comfortable and help Mija with the cooking, will you?’ he said, all the while making his way to Sherlock purposefully, his mind set on searching him while he was out.

 

_Sherlock was crouched in front of his Mind Palace, knuckles covered with dried blood and exhaustion written all over his face._

_‘John…let me in,’ he said in voice hoarse from shouting. It was now but a whisper, his energy having left his body, making him as helpless as a child._

_The doors remained stubbornly closed. With his head resting against the heavy door, he could hear everything that happened inside. What he could actually hear was the sound of silence._

_It seemed as if he had gone and done it for good this time. If John-in-his-head refused to talk to him…how could he hope to stay sane and focussed on his ultimate goal? Sherlock decided he wouldn’t go back to the physical world. If he had no chance of succeeding, what was the point of even trying? If there was no chance of hearing John’s voice again, real or imagined…why bother coming back?_

_The faint smell of order and solid wood had escaped his notice so lost in self-pity that he was. He also missed the sound of heavy footsteps which would have confirmed that something had been or was about to be slightly altered._

_Sherlock didn’t register the person standing in front of him until they were in his personal space – personal space that he so often disregarded in others but defended ferociously when it was his. He didn’t look up, even when he had realised he was not alone. He did not even bother demanding that the intruder leave. They did not seem to be very inclined to be the first to speak and stood still making no movement whatsoever, not even letting a sigh escape._

_‘What are they waiting f –? Oh. Oh, that’s Mycroft. Has to be. Nobody else would be willing to wait for me to start talking so as not to be the one instigating the conversation. Definitely Mycroft. Loves talking, though, so why –? Oh. Sentiment. God forbid a Holmes speak about such a horrendous thing. ‘Caring is not an advantage’ after all.‘_

_Even after deducing Mycroft was standing in front of him, Sherlock’s willingness to engage in a conversation had not changed. Especially after he had deduced the identity of the intruder._

_Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft’s patience wearing thin. He could very well imagine what his brother was thinking. He could feel his self-importance oozing out and radiating as a spreading fire._

_After what must have been an eternity of silence Mycroft spoke – and consequently lost the game he was playing against Sherlock._

_‘This is just you and me, brother dear.’_

_‘Go away, Mycroft.’_

_‘Your loyal John has left you, denying you the forgiveness you need from him.’_

_‘Piss off.’_

_‘However, brother dear, you must forget this silly notion,’ Mycroft continued, nonplussed by Sherlock’s reluctance to his presence._

_‘Leave me alone.’_

_‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’_

_‘Oh for Christ’s sake!’ Sherlock exclaimed as he sprung to his feet, teeth bared and almost foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. Mycroft looked at him, unmoving and unimpressed._

_‘Mummy dearest would be most disappointed were you to abandon your quest, wallowing in self-pity for the sake of a sulk.’_

_‘Leave her out of this, Mycroft.’_

_‘As you would,’ he conceded looking at his umbrella. He came closer to his brother’s face. ‘Remember that achieving success is always done through hardship,’ he added after a short pause. Sherlock’s smug brother was waiting for any kind of answer to his well-meant advice but he didn’t hear so much as a non-concomitant grunt._

_His childish mentality had taken over and there was nothing left but the childish feud between them, resulting in Sherlock completely ignoring his older brother, fiddling away with an invisible violin bow._

_Mycroft couldn’t do anything. He turned away and started walking._

_‘Time to wake up,’ he told his little brother on second thoughts._


	7. Presentation

As if this simple sentence were magical, Sherlock found himself back inside his body, aware of everything and everyone around him.

Opening his eyes, he realised the person who had brought him there had left. He must have been out for quite a while. The women were still doing their chores – but these were different ones: they were now mending clothes. The old man, however, was only pretending to repair a leather saddle of which the straps were starting to get loose. In truth, he was keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock.

‘Back to the land of the living?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Mija, can you fix that young man a cup of tea? Seems like he needs strength.’

Sherlock mentally thanked the man for the reprieve this slight delay in conversation brought him. _God knows I need it._ He would have more time to appraise his surroundings and make deductions – which he started as soon as the man had finished talking.

A lot of things must have happened since he arrived in the hut. However, Sherlock had trouble noticing anything apart from the obvious departure of his companion. He _was_ slipping. At least he had the good sense of getting back into character and try and analyse the man who was sitting not far from him.

_Crow’s feet and a lot wrinkles on his face, mostly bearing witness to a lifetime of hard work in the sun. That aura of kindness however…clearly he’s used to dealing with people and their emotions. But…how and why can a man of seemingly kind disposition work in a crim – oh. Obvious. Simple, really. Clear as day. A sort of doctor, then. Evidently not at the head of the branch although he does have a very important role to play here._

Sherlock was surprised by the movement of someone behind him. Since when had deducing started taking all his attention? ‘Here you go,’ the man said as he gave him his cup of tea. ‘So, what are you doing here? You look a little lost, if I’m honest.’ The man was speaking in a soft voice, had barely moved and had a general, non-assuming and non-threatening attitude.

_Trying to make me comfortable, I presume. Let’s see if he can handle Sherlock, then._

He kept silent.

‘You don’t want to talk.’

_You don’t say._

‘Well, when you decide to communicate, Nawang won’t be far,’ he said using the table to help himself up _Pretend. Of course he c –_

_‘Brother dear you are being childish. Continue with your plan.’_

_‘I don’t have a plan.’_

_‘Improvise, then. But stop losing time for nothing.’_

He sighed inwardly and resigned himself to the arduous task of speaking with another human being.

‘I presume the young man who brought me here has already told you that I wanted to find some sort of balance in my life,’ Sherlock declared without looking at his host. But even so, and even if his perceptions were slightly altered, he did notice that the man had turned around and was now facing him, probably finding curious that a seemingly stubborn person would suddenly change his mind for no apparent reason.

‘And why do you think you can find it here?’

‘Because here is quiet enough for Shé not to be noticed.’

Nawang seemed interested, but certainly didn’t show any tell that he might be anxious.

‘Yet you did hear of it’

‘Yes.’

‘And how do you think Shé could help you in "finding some sort of balance in your life"?’

‘I need to belong. I need my life to be significant. I need a purpose.’

‘Shé is not here to _help_ people.’

‘I am not _people._ ’ That particular answer had the desired effect. Nawang let go of the matter, implicitly conceding that Sherlock could have a place in that organisation.

‘I must fulfil my potential as a criminal leader.’

Nawang chuckled.

‘Not very modest, are you?’

‘Modesty is but a façade. Won’t get me anywhere, will it?’

‘Indeed. Well, it doesn’t depend on me whether you can get in or not – ‘

Sherlock couldn’t help but snort. Nawang raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for Sherlock to voice his thoughts. When Sherlock stayed silent, Nawang turned around and left the room.

 

     He came back not very long after he had left.

‘You’re in, boy. Welcome to Shé. I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for,’ he announced as he came back into the room.

_The Game is on. Just a month or two and I’ll return to my beloved London._

‘Come with me now, boy.’

_What? Paperwork, here, for that kind of…activity?_

‘Sonam said your name was Schpraga. Still want to go by that name?’ asked Nawang, implying that he was aware that Sherlock had given an alias. As far as he was concerned, Schpraga had forgotten his real name a long time ago.

 _I would need a name that does not give away too much. Yet it has to have some degree of cunning. I_ am _trying to expose Moriarty’s right hand there._

‘Shual Shah-khohr.’

‘Very well. Shual Shah-khohr welcome to Shé. Now, let me explain how it works.’

_Oh you’re taking me for an imbecile. Delightful._

‘Do you know what it is Shé does?’

‘Not specifically, no,’ answered Sherlock in the hope that he would obtain a little more information to help dismantle that part of the network. But it was wishful thinking.

‘Shé’s main purpose is to steal very useful…tools. And for that activity, Shé needs intelligent soldiers.’

Sherlock could not help but mutter _obviously_ to which Nawang replied with a mere raised eyebrow.

‘And what kind of _tools_ do we steal, then?’

‘Ah. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. Isn’t it enough you know that these tools are useful and important?’ _This is a test in disguise. Everything from Nawang’s open posture to his insufficient description point to it._

Sherlock assumed a resigned look.

‘I suppose it does. Haven’t proven myself yet, have I?’

‘Exactly.’

An awkward silence threatened to settle in the discussion.

‘You said that stealing was the main purpose of Shé. I take it there are other…activities to help with?’

‘Oh well, yes. The usual. You know.’

‘Yes. But there’s more to it, isn’t there?’ Sherlock all but demanded.

‘I think I’ve told you everything you needed to know, now,’ declared Nawang as he stood up.

 _So there_ is _more to it. I suppose I should just wait and see. ‘Should’ being the operative word, here._

‘Shual…?’

‘Shual Shah-khohr,’ completed Sherlock. ‘Not a name one hears every day, I expect, but not overly complicated. Easy to remember, I’ll say.’

‘Indeed. I don’t think you’d like to stay cooped up in this dusty office of mine all day, would you?’ he asked, showing him the door in case the meaning of his words had not come across.

‘No, I wouldn’t. Of course.’ He went towards the door and as he put his hand on the doorknob, he remembered one of John’s early lessons on manners and turned around to face his host. ‘Thank you for your time, Nawang.’

Nawang’s face showed that he had not expected any basic niceties from Sherlock – be it from Schpraga’s reputation or the impression he’d given him since he’d first arrived.  Nawang smiled and bowed his head ever-so-slightly in acknowledgement before dismissing him with a wave, much as Mycroft would have done.

Sherlock turned around and left the room without another word. Closing the door, he reflected he might be able to exploit his connection to Nawang. Social niceties were important in that sense.

_‘Shame you should realise that this late, brother dear. You would have been the perfect gentleman.’_

_‘I don’t have time for your smugness – or your lectures, Mycroft.’_

_‘Quite. Time is of the essence. You must get acquainted with your new colleagues. Heaven knows it will be a dreadful hardship, brother mine.’_

The thought of Mycroft receded much like the real one would have left, slowly walking away leaning on his umbrella.

Sherlock went out of the hut. He wanted to know the layout of the place although he suspected that he wouldn’t know the land as intimately as one who would have spent years there.

The hut in which he had met Nawang and had enrolled was in the middle of a plateau with some sort of a garden all around in which domestic things happened. He sat on a rock and observed his surroundings. Below him was nothing but a treacherous path which at this kind of altitude was obviously covered by snow. He remembered his ascension – it had been physically draining. Had Sonam not shown up, he would have frozen and most probably died there. _Irrelevant. This won’t get me anywhere._ Turning towards the east of the mountain, he could not make out much else apart from a path drawn by animals. The hut was in a remote place, its inhabitants needed food and water which could only be brought by these. What better way to get these two essentials than transporting them to where they were so obviously needed? Of course, they could very well hunt game and toil to get water, but it would not be as plentiful.

The people he had seen in the hut did not look underfed, they had a few goats nearby to provide them with milk and butter; they also seemed to be competent in mending and fixing day-to-day items. Exchange of goods was the most likely assumption to make. Examining the deeper footprints coming towards the hut only confirmed said assumption. He kept that information in mind – he who said ‘market’ of any kind – or at the very least ‘people gathering' – implied gossiping. This could prove useful in the future.

The west side of the mountain looked too rough for anyone: ragged lines, unsteady ground, … _Too dangerous, even for criminals_. He decided against going in that direction and was left with only possibility: up. He would have liked to rest for a full day before even thinking on continuing the ascension of the mountain. At least his transport would have. Not so much Sherlock who despite being aware that he had not rested enough – and would consequently have to proceed with caution – wanted to get on with the mission and get back to London.

Grating his teeth in advance – he knew his muscles would protest sooner or later – he started off towards the top of the mountain, hoping that he would not have to walk that far. He didn’t want to lose any more time than necessary. He hoped his body would endure the walk to the lair and admonished himself for not having paid attention as to how Tibetan tea was made: he could only remember that butter was involved from the taste of the tea Sonam had offered him.

‘Hey!’ started a voice behind him. ‘Wait up!’

_Thinking of the devil._

‘Sonam.’

‘Feeling better, eh?’

‘Why yes, thank you. Thank you for asking.’ _I’ve never said ‘thank you’ before becoming a criminal. Suppose it will be more helpful in this criminal circle than when dealing with the Dzins. Ruffians._

‘So, what are you up to then –? Oh, I’m sorry, I…I don’t remember your name.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Shual Shah-khohr.’

Sonam tried to commit it to memory, saying it several times in a low voice.

‘Shual Shah-khohr,’ he said aloud, getting his tongue around it. ‘So tell me, Shual Shah-khohr, what are you doing?’

‘As it happens, I am going up the mountain, trying to find – ‘

‘– People of Shé, eh?’

‘Precisely.’ Sonam made a face.

‘Aren’t you a bit surprised I know of them?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Sherlock replied, trying to be as nice and patient as he could. ‘You brought me here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I d – ‘

‘– And you didn’t ask me a lot of questions as to what kind of place I was looking for – you automatically understood Shé was the place I wanted to go to. Could have been a shot in the dark but from the way you walked in the hut and greeted Nawang, it didn’t look like it was your first experience in bringing someone in. So no, Sonam, I am not surprised you know of Shé.’

‘Ama – ‘ he started saying, but Sherlock cut him off instantly.

‘Now we’ve established that we both work for Shé, that I’m new and you obviously are not, would you mind guiding me? Please.’ _I hope I wasn’t too…_

‘Of course, Shual, it’s no problem at all.’

‘Shual Shah-khohr. I apologise for my name’s length, but it is my name and I’m not inclined to having it diminished.’ Sonam looked like a chastised child and contemplated his feet when next he spoke.

‘I apologise. I forgot my place. Shual Shah-khohr is your name and I should have respected that. Rest assured that I will not diminish it again in the future.’

‘There is no need to sound so contrite, Sonam. I shouldn’t have reprimanded you in such a harsh manner.’

‘As you say, Shual Shah-khohr. Now, how can I help you?’

Had Sherlock not said anything it would not have made any difference. Sonam had reverted to being an inoffensive servant. As much as Sherlock wouldn’t mind someone who kept silent, he knew that he needed someone familiar to Shé to guide him through the basics of its inner working; and experience had taught him that people were more inclined to tell truths and reveal useful information when they were not guarding themselves as Sonam was doing at the moment. Sherlock stopped walking, faced Sonam and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. His guide stopped, surprise showed on his face and he tried to avert his eyes from Sherlock’s.

‘Sonam. Look at me. That’s better. Now, listen to me. I didn’t mean to be as harsh as I have been when I told you to say my name in its entirety. I am nervous – _yes_ , I _am_ ,’ he added before Sonam could voice any doubt. ‘It is never easy discovering a new place on one’s own, after all. So, Sonam, please. I could use a friendly face here, not a closed-off guide. Can we get back to five minutes ago?’ he asked, his face a carefully made mask of sincerity.

Sonam blinked. Cleared his throat. Averted his gaze. And carefully put a hand on one of Sherlock’s looking him in the eye with a bright smile on his face. ‘Yes, Shual Shah-khohr, of course we can.’

Sherlock took his hands off Sonam’s shoulders as soon as he had finished his sentence.

‘Let’s get going then, shall we?’

 


	8. Slithering in the Shadows

Thirteen huts were disposed in a circle around a bigger one. Men and women were talking idly about a subject or another, some of them more engaged in their discussion than others and did not see Sherlock and Sonam approaching towards them.

The chatter continued on but it was more subdued than it had been mere moments before Sherlock and Sonam appeared. At a closer distance, Sherlock noted without any surprise whatsoever that more men were present than women on the premises – criminal activities had a propensity to bring out more males than females. However, as indicated by the look of cunning determination on the women’s faces, females were not less able to be criminals than males.

Sonam who had taken it upon himself to give Sherlock a tour of the place decided to introduce him to his new colleagues. Appraising the situation, he noted that most of Shé’s members were present but that the most unsettling of them were, by a stroke of luck, missing. He took a deep breath and prepared to speak loudly in order to get everyone’s attention.

‘Everybody listen!’

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose slightly. Anyone who needed to make it clear that he was speaking had clearly _not_ a commanding presence.

‘Our masters of Shé have decided to welcome a new member in our nest.’

This announcement only brought a few grunting of acknowledgement.

‘Can we all say to Shual Shah-khohr how good it is to have him with us…?’

There was another grumble of grunting. This did not bode well, Sonam was talking to these possibly very clever criminals as if they were still in primary school. _Time to step in._

Sherlock took a step further still standing with his back straight and his head held up high. He didn’t extend his gloved hand in an attempt to greet them. The chatter slowly died out.

His eyes roamed the crowd of people gathered, settling on one then the other, a not-so-occasional smirk visible on his face, thus making clear he was learning things about them – things that enabled him to put them in a category…and judge them.

_You see, Mycroft. I am not, as you’d like to believe, slipping._

He broke into a predatory smile and introduced himself.

‘I am Shual Shah-khohr. I have come here to learn new criminal techniques and to help wreak havoc on the world,’ he added with a grin. Strangely enough, as soon as the c-word had been uttered, the people in front of him visibly relaxed – shoulders dropped, breaths were let out – and focussed: he had their attention.

‘I have been told that my lack of people skills helped me to be more efficient in every task put to me and that my ability to be unaffected by stressful situations and events was a serious advantage to any risky endeavour.’

Sonam tensed behind him. _Ah. Didn’t understand why I’d say this. Good to know. Now they look like they want to know more about me._

‘What I should add is that if you find yourself lacking motivation to complete a task and want to abandon it, I will not join you. If you want to forsake an assignment for whichever reason, I will not be part of your team. If we have been working on a mission for weeks and that no progress has been made I will pursue it until it is complete. In a nutshell I have the same persistence and obstinacy as a hunting wolf. Sherlock stood still, the crowd _the pack_ still surrounding him in silence. The audience had been mesmerised by his speech. There were a few seconds of silence during which Sherlock read the crowd judging him, assessing whether he was worthy of interest or not. They were looking at him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot – what he had said about himself was bound to make anyone feel a little uneasy. But their gaze was steady and not leaving him.

He had been accepted.

The crowd slowly applauded. Not a loud cheer but a low rumble of assent accompanied by steady claps. People approached and gave him a few words of welcome with a clap on the back. Sherlock thought it intrusive but reasoned that he had to endure this, even if he had stated in front of the whole crowd that his social skills were appalling – and any social interaction a real torture. They slowly dispersed and a bulky man closed in on him. Sherlock instinctively tensed: everything in this man screamed ‘danger’.

‘Welcome, Shual Shah-khohr. Come with me,’ he said with no hint of a smile.

Sherlock complied and followed suit.

‘Taking me to the boss, are you?’

‘Don’t try chatting.’

‘So you are then. Good.’

The man just glared at him. Sherlock ignored it, shrugged and didn’t utter another word.

 

They walked along an almost non-existent path up and around the huts. The way they had taken was arduous. Shé being a criminal organisation, Sherlock gathered that its members’ strength and commitment would be tested now and then.

After a challenging walk on the barely visible and rocky path they arrived in front of a stone hut. Like all other habitations here, it had a chimney which was producing grey smoke, of an identical density to the others. Sherlock’s guide did not shove him in per se but strongly encouraged him to go in with a large push against his shoulders.

Shé’s chief happened to be a short woman with free long dark hair. She was wearing an ankle long skirt with a matching brown blouse and cape which was put on the back of a chair. She was busy mixing herbs into her cooking and finished in no hurry before turning around with a warm smile on her rather plump face.

‘Hello, Dorjee. And you must be Shual Shah-khohr, who dislikes his name to be shortened,’ she said after having appraised him. ‘Please, take a seat. You must have had quite a long and rough journey to get here,’ she declared whilst turning her attention back to her cooking. When she didn’t hear the sound of someone sitting down she turned around again – this time with a frown on her face. Dorjee was glaring at this new stubborn recruit.

‘I don’t think you’ve got a bad hearing. And I don’t think that you’re stupid or did not understand me. You really don’t seem to be. So tell me, Shual Shah-khohr, why didn’t you sit down as I suggested?’ she asked. All the while she was talking and advancing in a reptilian way, all trace of apparent niceness gone from her face like a snake shedding its skin.

Absolutely not used to being told off, Sherlock almost glared and acted like a petulant child until he remembered his mission and the paramount importance of its completion. He kept his mouth shut and dropped his eyes. He didn’t go as far as apologising, but he was certain that his attitude looked contrite enough.

‘Ah. Of course. Trying to keep the upper hand and not relinquishing your dominance. I understand. It is so hard to let it go.’ Her tone had lost its sharp edge and was now close to that of a mother. ‘But trust me, life is so much easier if you’re not struggling all the time for something that you cannot keep. Dorjee. Leave us, please,’ she said in a hushed tone.

Dohna had still her back held to both men, confident her order would be obeyed.  Beside Sherlock, Dorjee uncrossed his arms, sighed in the most discreet way possible and slightly bowed his head before leaving. When the door made a soft ‘click’ indicating that it had closed on Dorjee, Dohna waited a few m/ore minutes, seemingly pondering over her cooking before breaking the silence once again. ‘Now, will you please take a seat? I’d like to know my new recruit as well as I do every other member of Shé.’

Sherlock remained standing.

‘No, thank you. I’d rather _you_ ’d sat down,' he replied in all seriousness.

Dohna laughed. ‘You’ve got nerve and a large ego it would seem! It’s a good thing nobody but me heard that. The members of Shé tolerate insubordination even less than I do.'

‘From what I’ve seen it’s not that diff – ‘

The petite woman had abruptly turned towards Sherlock and didn’t seem to be the same person. She had the same physical features but the intent on her face had turned into one of punishing harshly and severely. It was so sudden and so convincing that it gave Sherlock pause. He cut himself short and retreated a couple of steps. _I must complete the mission if I am to return to John._

‘Do not try to push me. If you don’t behave, I _will_ get you. Is that understood?’

Sherlock had the instinct to nod and look at the ground in defeat.

‘Good. Now, I have to tell you that every single new recruit will meet me on the day they’re made members. Do you know why?’

‘I imagine it ensures an even more thorough assessment?’

‘Exactly. I must say that I find myself in deep agreement with Nawang’s judgement. There has been a moment when you were not completely present when the two of you talked. I am correct in thinking this behaviour will not happen again, am I not?’

‘Of course you are, ma’am.’ He decided not to offer any sort of explanation lest it brought trouble and compromise the mission.

‘I certainly hope so. And do take a seat, you’re making it hard on my neck to look at you. Why do you men always have to be immense?’ she added under her breath as she took a vial of what Sherlock assumed were spices since she put a bit of it in the pot she was cooking. Sherlock complied. Dohna – and Shé – had to think that despite his strong character, Shual Shah-khohr could be trusted.

He sat there, thinking, deducing while she was busy cooking _and presumably doing the same as me._ He refrained from entering his Mind Palace: he did not want another catatonic break down and even less so in front of Dohna. He knew he would have to go there eventually…and sooner rather than later for his own sanity.

‘It’s almost ready. You will take a bit of it here, won’t you? Good. It is a broth with chicken, a bit of spice and potatoes. There are always potatoes in the cooking of the mountain. Keeps your energy high.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Now eat. You need more meat than that on your bones if you’re to be of any use in your work for me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Tell me, Shual Shah-khohr, where is it that you come from? You have a Slavic accent, a really good one. But it’s clearly a fake.’

‘I don’t see how – ‘

‘No. And you don’t need to.’

Bowing his head once again, he answered the question, not bothering with inventing too many details: that would give him away.

‘I see. And you want to escape it all. You are aware, are you not, that once you join our side and embrace your own darkness you cannot backtrack?’

‘Very much so, yes. There is nothing left for me there.’

She appraised him for a moment. ‘Good. You _are_ ready. Familiarise yourself with your new family. I expect you’ll be done in a few days. Then you’ll be given your first assignment.’

She rose and came up to him, putting her hand forward indicating that she would take his bowl. He was dismissed. Even Mycroft had never been that subtle for these. He rose.

‘Very well. Thank you. I will not disappoint.’

 

Sherlock retreated, wondering how he’d familiarise himself with his colleagues. He didn’t think Sonam could be of much help as he didn’t appear to be the most liked or respected man on the camp. He would help him however with names and the general functioning and layout of the place. Sherlock went in search of the young man and found him waiting by the fire in the middle of the hut village. He smiled brightly when he saw Sherlock.

‘Shual Shah-khohr! Did you get approved? What did she say? Was it hard? Are you tired?’

‘Yes, Sonam. She accepted me as a new member. She did not say much, but I suspect that is to be expected.’

‘How do you mean?’ Sherlock did not answer and Sonam did not press for more information. _John would have insisted just so he could feel included._ ‘Was it hard though? What did you have to do?’

‘With your experience working for Shé, don’t tell me you don’t know how it goes.’

‘I don’t, I swear. It keeps changing.’

‘Surprising. I imagine she has a different way of dealing with new recruits for every one of us.’

‘Oh! That must be it. Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Shual Shah-khohr.’

Sherlock smirked _Some things don’t change_ ‘Obviously. Sonam, I want you to tell me who you think has the most influence and who is the easiest to approach and befriend,’ Sherlock continued.

‘Already trying to get up the ladder, eh?’

‘Not at all, Sonam. I’m merely trying to know those I will be working with.’

‘Your family, you mean,’ Sonam corrected.

‘Precisely.’

‘You _are_ planning something.’

‘Yes, I am. As I told you, I am planning on knowing my new family.’

‘Alright then, Shual Shah-khohr.’ _This one really hasn’t got much brains, has he?_

‘I was thinking of sitting with them this evening.’

‘Yeah, good idea.’ _And now he’s sulking._

‘Come with me.’

‘Oooh, really?’ _Easy to brighten up._

‘Yes, really, Sonam. You’ll be most necessary.’

Sherlock knew he was being manipulative. He was not a good person and was very much aware of it. He would use any means necessary to complete his mission and return to John. He knew that it would be highly unlikely that John approved of his way of doing things…but John wouldn’t know of it: he’d never tell him. There was no chance John would want to see him or have anything to do with ever again if he did.

‘Shual Shah-khohr? Mate, you’ve gone off again!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Try not to do that when you’re with the family. Nothing good can come of it.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. Thank you.’

‘No problem. So, meet them?’

‘Of course. Lead the way,’ Sherlock said with an encouraging smile.

‘Oh, they’re not far. I bet you can hear them.’

‘Indeed, I can. But I need someone to show me the way.’

 

Sonam blushed faintly, unused as he was to be found of any use to anyone anywhere. He lowered his eyes in gratitude and started on his way – short as he had said. However, these few minutes were very precious to Sherlock: he used them to get back in character and assume the air of…well his own _pre-John_ attitude: haughty, unreachable, full of spite. Even if criminals were human beings they didn’t view his behaviour as badly as…well, most of humanity. They did seem to like him well enough when he first introduced himself earlier that day. He elected not to say anything however as Sonam and he sat down: he was sure that the men would engage him in conversation soon enough. They had seemed rather keen on accepting him earlier on.

‘So. The snake’s accepted you into her lair, hasn’t she?’

‘Apparently so, yes.’

‘Ah! Good.’

‘Not completely, she hasn’t,’ retorted a bulky dishevelled man.

‘Oh shut it, Norbu! Don’t want to scare – shit.’

‘Didn’t say anything, Pemba.’

‘True. But do enlighten me: why would I be scared?’

Norbu just shrugged. ‘Don’t think you would be.’

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow to which Norbu replied by looking pointedly at Sonam.

‘Of course. Forget I asked anything.’

Sonam looked at Sherlock then at Norbu as if trying to make sense of what had happened but evidently failing to do so.

‘I’ll just, er – ‘

‘Yes, Sonam. I’m sure you have a lot of things to do.’

‘Shual Shah-khohr…?’

‘It’s for the best. You’d be doing me a favour, in fact.’

‘Oh. Well, in that case, I’ll be going,’ he said, rather confused at Shual Shah-khohr’s complete change. He stood up and left, throwing a last confused glance towards the men gathered there.

‘Ah! Thought he wouldn’t leave. What’d you do to ‘im, eh?’ asked Pemba with a suggestive grin.

Norbu rolled his eyes. So did Sherlock.

‘Trial,’ said Norbu, looking in the fire. 'Not necessarily pleasant, but given your history, you should be fine.’

‘My history, you say?’

‘Yes. You didn’t think Shé was so far away that nothing ever reached us, did you?’ chimed another man. ‘We know a lot here, Schpraga,’ he added with a wink.

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Your reputation precedes you. We’re honoured to have you with us.’

‘As well you should,’ Sherlock replied haughtily. ‘When is that trial supposed to take place?’

‘Oh, there’s no set date. Once you’re comfy here, boss’ll have you take it.’

‘Talking of the Devil,’ muttered Norbu.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’ve come because Shual Shah-khohr has joined us and I deem him ready.’

Sherlock looked at his new companions before taking in Dohna and the fact that she had something in her hand. _A vial of some sort._ _Ah, that’s the test we were talking about, I suppose. Involving a drug. Most likely heroin._

‘Good evening, ma’am. If you think I am ready, I must be. But may I enquire _what_ it is exactly that I am ready for?’

She turned to look at him, smiling broadly.

‘Dearest Shual Shah-khohr. You are to take your medicine, of course,’ she answered amicably, showing him the vial.

‘Indeed. Heroin, I suppose?’

‘Quite so. Injecting will be quicker.’

‘I know. How much – ‘

‘All of it, of course.’

Sherlock frowned. The vial may not hold a large quantity but it was full of heroin which was certain to be very potent and it had been a while since he had not…

‘It’s pure.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Let me take – ‘

‘Here,’ she gave him what he needed.

 

Sherlock woke up somewhere he was not familiar with. The mattress linen was…different from Baker Street to say the least. The air surrounding him was freezing.

‘Your reputation is not based on lies, Shual Shah-khohr. You passed the test. With flying colours, I might add.’

_Tibet. I’m still away. John. I’m coming back. I must…complete the mission first, to keep you safe._

‘Alright?’

‘I was a bird. Flying. Or falling. I can’t remember.’

‘Ah! I guess you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be able to string a sentence together. What’s your name then?’

‘Not your best question. You told me not two minutes ago.’

‘Yes. And I’m waiting.’

‘Shual Shah-khohr. Satisfied, Nawang?’

‘Very. Now, I know you might not feel your stomach strong enough to keep anything down but I’ve been given orders to feed you a little. So. Go on then.’

Sherlock complied. It was true that his stomach wasn’t strong enough to handle any sort of liquid, let alone food. Nevertheless, he forced himself to obey. He found that it was after all a good way to make his body return to the real world even if it was a bit…unsettled.

‘Good. Now, listen to me. You passed the test, Shual Shah-khohr. You are part of the family. Well done. You will soon be given an assignment. I will give it to you, in fact. Do not disappoint me. Do not make me regret – ‘

‘No, I won’t. Thank you.’


	9. In the Snake's Den...

A few days went by during which Sherlock recovered from his test, _I will not become an addict again, and_ acquainted himself with his surroundings as well as the people he was to work with. A good first contact had to be cultivated so good relations could grow. He had tried to go into his Mind Palace to investigate what was happening – and how he could make the situation revert to what it was – it was _his_ mind after all, and everything he had ever learnt was there, everything that John taught him was there. He had to, there was no other way.

He went into his hut carefully, closed the door behind him and sat down. He did a few breathing exercises and lit a candle before focussing on the flame to clear his mind and make it more easily accessible. Meditation had never been necessary before: he had been the master of his mind, making such strange a happening impossible – until emotions took control. No other explanation would fit better: there had been a crack in the lens, a grit in the sensitive instrument that was his brain and he would have to deal with it. Silencing his mind was going to be difficult: not only would he not stop thinking but snarky remarks would also seep through the doors in his Mind Palace and invade his mind, fuelling his thoughts. It was a vicious circle and breaking it… _Concentrate on the flame._

The doors to his Mind Palace were still locked. He resolved to enter through the back garden where the grass had grown as high as his waist. He never had to resort to such a thing and hoped not only that it would work but also that it would be the one and only time he would have to.

The skies were heavy and dark above his head. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He continued to walk to the backdoor. A sign marked ‘KEEP OUT!’ welcomed him. Thunder cracked. It was closer this time. He put his hand on the doorknob and found it stuck. A drop of rain fell on his cheek. He didn’t care for the rain. He only wanted to go inside and reunite with John and the manner in which he would welcome him did not hold any sort of importance. He tried again. The doorknob still would not cede and a heavy rain, _a downpour_ , started to descend on him. He still did not care for the rain in the slightest: it was very fitting to his own inner troubles.

Frustration took over him in his fifth attempt to enter. His already rain-battered figure was shaking, tears falling freely from his eyes.

_‘John…please…I’m sorry…I’m sorry for everything…I’m sorry I let you down…John…please…let me in…You know that I only want to see you, you can do everything you like to me…just…please…John…let me in…’_

Click.

 

The door opened. The skies were still announcing a thunderstorm but it was hardly his concern. He could enter. Complete darkness surrounded him as he entered and a stuffy, acrid smell assailed him. There was nothing but the sound of silence and the smell of abandonment -or was it decay? – to welcome him.

He continued walking in at a slow, careful pace until he arrived in the middle of the hall. The dim light from outside came through the closed curtains on the windows. He could distinguish a figure standing before him. A figure a would recognise anywhere in an instant. _John._

 _‘No,’_ John declared. Sherlock was about to formulate a reply when John’s eyes, severe and full of reproach bore into Sherlock’s before he vanished entirely.

Never before had Sherlock felt so alone, so vulnerable. John, his wonderful, clever and steadfast John had abandoned him in the desolation of his mind. He ought to rejoice at having entered his Mind Palace and at having regained some control over it. He could only feel the pain, the heartbreak at John’s forsaking him. When he ought to have ran to the curtains to open them, when his eyes would have swept the room for anything that would help him understand…He remained frozen.

 

‘Shual Shah-khohr. Open your eyes. Meditation is over. Now,’ someone said, blowing the candle he had previously lit.

The smell of smoke reached Sherlock. In the dark atmosphere he was in, an alarm sounded to warn him that something was happening in the real world and that his body might be in danger. He left through the front door and opened his eyes.

‘Nawang. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’ve come to give you the assignment Dohna has decided to trust you with.’

Sherlock perked up. The game was still on; interruptions did not bring it to a stop.

‘As a new recruit you will only observe and collect information on a science laboratory. Tell us what they do, what they are working on. Tell us if they perform any experiment. Tell us if they are successful and in which area. We want you to note and remember everything that you see. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Nawang.’

‘Have you got any questions?’

‘Yes, two actually. What’s the name of the place?’

‘Clamp Pharmaceutical.’

‘Noted. Address?’

‘What if we just took you there? We’ll come to collect you in five days. That should leave you enough time to observe and get as much information as you can.’

‘Very well. Give me ten minutes to pack. I will be there.’

‘Ten minutes, Shual Shah-khohr, and not a second more,’ replied Nawang in a stern way as if he had already been waiting.

 

Nawang and Sherlock went away, each on a sturdy pony as was fitting to any member of Shé. What’s more, even if Shual Shah-khohr was only gone five days, he had had to pack a few clothes and items to take with.

They went down the mountain then Nawang indicated a car for them to continue the way to the laboratory Shual Shah-khohr had to observe. It was a long distance away after all, one that would have been silly to ride. They arrived the next evening. Nawang explained again to Shual Shah-khohr what was expected of him and that there was no point in trying to contact him: he would be there five days later. If anything unfortunate happened in these five days, Shual Shah-khohr was left to his own devices – another test to see how he would cope under stress or duress. He would have to deal with whatever situation he found himself in. Of course, during the first and possibly second day he was not supposed to be seen by anyone, but during the last three days…one couldn’t possibly spy on a firm, whatever it may be, and not come in contact with anyone. Sherlock had tried to argue the fact but found himself in front of a man as obstinate as he was: Nawang being one of the higher-ups, Sherlock decided to let the matter drop. It would not do to be on their bad side. Other members had told him that the first assignment was never thrilling. However, observing was the perfect assignment for him. _Oh, the irony…!_

He wanted to share that thought and a few laughs with John…but realised that it was, once again, wishful thinking: not only was John thousands of miles away, he also thought that Sherlock was dead. _If only I could let him know that I am alive…If only there were a way…_

_’Oh for crying out loud! Get to work! That’ll reduce the time you get back to London.’_

Sherlock settled near the firm – he put on yet another disguise, sat down and waited until there was something to observe. He would then be able to compare it with the ‘nothing to observe’ situation.

Nobody would notice him. Even if the laboratory was not in the town centre, it was far from being unheard of that homeless people go to places such as this one. As it was more remote, there was less concurrence: it offered more chance to find fish that bit. It might look suspicious were he to stay for more than a day – ‘might’ being the operative word here: people did not seem to care much for other human beings anymore and that meant that they were more careless than ever, rarely bothering to hide the tells that would give their true selves away.

 

The building of the firm he was to collect information on was simple: large, white, with a lot of windows and its name written in bold capital letters. Several signposts around him advertised the place for being a prominent research centre fighting against the development of genetic disease. Although it looked recent, the building had been there for at least 20 years. The people working in it didn’t appear to be under the age of 40. Sherlock wondered what could be hidden behind its walls.

He decided to take a look at the surroundings in the hopes there were more details to note. Aside from a damaged fence _Well this is going to be easy_ nothing caught his attention. People entered on a schedule like anywhere else, some looked more tired than others but not one of them caught his eye as a potential clueless informant. _Got to work on reading people again._

He returned after the sun had set in order to get a feel of the lock. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that breaking and entering would be Shé’s next step _to steal, obviously._ Over the next few days he took note of the surveillance cameras and the general layout of the place as well as the offices which were sure to interest Dohna, and Shé.

 

His exploration of the place during the day was very limited since he tried as much as possible to avoid attention – no one wanted to address a vagrant anyway but one was never careful enough. Sherlock had discovered the importance of being careful since he had taken his fall to protect John; if he were not, not only would he take a longer time to be reunited with John, but Sherlock might actually be in so much trouble that he would not see John again at all. Since this wouldn’t do, he had to be more careful than he had ever been.

As he observed the building and its surroundings, he noted who would walk in or out and at what times, what would be needed to enter as a visitor, what the security was like…

His disguise of a vagrant was excellent, people left him well alone and ignored him. _How could it be otherwise? Lying is second nature to you._ There was the very occasional good Samaritan who would give him some change and exchange a few brief words – but not on his first day of observation.

As it was as if he were not here, he was able to listen to people’s conversations and he learnt a lot on the Human Resources department as well as the relations between colleagues, not to mention a little bit of gossip on the higher-ups. Dohna was going to be extremely pleased with all the information Shal Shah-khohr would provide at the end of his assignment.

                At night, he took it upon himself to start evaluating the security of the surroundings and took note of what would have to be dealt with from guards, dogs, lights, surveillance cameras, alarms…

It turned out that all of these would have to be taken care of before any action could be undertaken – by a group of people at any rate.

On the third day of his mission, Sherlock crept into the building and started collecting more precise information. Since Dohna had assigned him to this task, it seemed rather unlikely that she didn’t know what project the teams of scientists were working on. He nevertheless looked for it and discovered that they were looking for a compound molecule that would help and block any modification to the neurotransmitters, so that mentally or physically ill patients would see their way of living improve.

Sherlock was surprised for a total of 17 seconds, but he realised that Shé would not be interested in making people’s lives better. It was merely the compound molecule that interested them: their own teams of scientists would work on it to a completely different purpose.

He knew he should at least feel some discomfort in helping bad people but completing the mission being all that mattered to him he thought it best not to bother himself with any such moral consideration and impediment. The Dzins mostly dealt with drugs – that is to say they helped people in bad shape get in even worse shape but they did not really have malicious intent even if they exploited people’s weaknesses. Sherlock was pragmatic and considered that most ways to reach his goal were not bad, just a means to an end.

He continued on with his exploration.

 

At the end of his five-day assignment, he was told that he had done a tremendously helpful work. Dohna’s eyes brightened and she made it abundantly clear that she was very pleased with Shual Shah-khohr’s work and that his efforts deserved to and would be acknowledged. As he understood what sort of reward such acknowledgement would entail, Sherlock felt his insides clench. John would not be happy with any reward given by the criminal underworld. Sherlock retreated to his place to have some well-deserved rest.

Soon after he had closed the door, someone knocked. He grunted quite audibly. Whenever he was fending off people to be on his own never seemed to be easy. He stood up from the large chair on which he was sprawled and walked to the door as slowly as he could.

‘What do you want?’

‘Hello, Shual Shah-khohr, mate. Can I come in?’

‘Er, Sonam, thank you for visiting me, but – ‘

‘Great. Thanks,’ Sonam declared completely ignoring the fact that his host was trying to refuse him entry. Sonam entered as if he had been warmly invited in. _That’ll teach me to try to be polite._

Sherlock stood dumbfounded for a few seconds before his (bad) manners took over.

‘Sonam, please take a seat. What can I do for you? Can I get you a glass of water? Oh, no, nevermind. Why don’t you just help yourself?’ Sonam blushed and stammered. Sherlock’s sarcasm had been completely lost on him.

‘Oh, really? Thank you so much!’ _Dear God I certainly hope I’ve never been as clueless as that._

_Yes, you have._

‘You’ve done a very good job with your first assignment!’

‘That’s what I hear, yes.’

‘So…you’ve got to celebrate, then!’

‘If you say so, Sonam.’ _Where is this heading? Is this…?_

‘Would you…would you want to celebrate with me, by any chance?’

_Dear Lord. It is._

‘Er, Sonam. I must tell you that I appreciate your interest but I’m really not looking for any kind of – ‘

‘Ah,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘I see. It’s all right. No worries. Erm. I’ll just…I’ll just go then. Thank you.’

_Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. Why did he come at all if he would just leave not 5 minutes in…? Ah._

‘Thank you, Sonam,’ he said as the younger man was leaving, shoulders hunched in defeat.

_‘Brother mine. Why did you turn him down, I wonder? He does have a physical resemblance to a certain military man.’_

_‘I don’t want you to intrude in – ‘_

_‘Of course. I’m not certain there is any area in which you would actually want me to intrude.’_

_‘No. Why do you at all then?’_

_‘It amuses me. And it is, I fear, sometimes needed. Tell me, brother dear. You are aware that – ‘_

_‘ – Yes, of course, I am, Mycroft.’_ Sherlock proceeded to ignore the very accurate image of his brother his imagination had come up with.

_‘Until next time then, Sherlock. Do not linger too long.’_

Sherlock had sprawled on his chair again and let out an enormous sigh. Hurrying was his goal, he did not fancy taking too long to come back.

 

When he returned to the main camp, Shual Shah-khohr had been acclaimed by Dohna and made privy to some knowledge on what would possibly  be done with the information he had obtained.

Shé’s chemists were to work on the compound Clamp Pharmaceutical had discovered and use it to create a drug which once attached to certain neurotransmitters would result in increasing the quantity of lithium absorbed by the brain thus significantly lowering the serotonin level.  The end result would be to create severe acute anxiety disorders at the very least to anyone who would ingest or inhale it – this being the preferred method as it had proven particularly efficient and much quicker than any other way of absorbing it in the 1980s.

They intended to make a more potent drug with more lasting effects. _Baskerville 2.0. How charming._

There was a knock on his door. _For God’s sake, again?! Can’t I be alone for five minutes without everyone trying to see me every ten seconds?_

‘Shual Shah-khohr.’

‘Ah. Dohna. Thank you for visiting. What can I do for you?’

‘For a start, you can cut the obsequiousness. I know very well that you would rather be left alone right now. You do deserve a rest, after all.’

He harrumphed. ‘That mission was far from being difficult.’

‘Nevertheless. The insight you provided us will be very useful to us. And something must be done to show our gratitude –’

‘Then I – ‘

‘– which is why I want to promote you.’

‘You…I, I’m sorry?’

‘Promote you, yes. However, you must still undergo a trial. I’m afraid no one can skip this one under any circumstance.’

‘Oh, all right. When – ‘

‘In a month’s time.’

‘And may I ask what it will consist in?’

‘You may ask. But I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer.’

‘Ah.’

‘I do have every confidence you will pass this test with honours as well. If it is of any reassurance to you.’

‘Thank you, Dohna.’ She started to head back towards the door. ‘But…What if I don’t?’

‘We’ll cross that bridge wh- _if_ we come to it.’

‘Very well. I’ll try my best not to disappoint.’

‘I’m certain you will not, Shual Shah-khohr,’ she said as she was leaving.


	10. ...Where Darkness Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter : torture and implied rape.

Sherlock lived the next days in anguish. Of course, other assignments were given to him and he did them, but he was not entirely focussed on them. He tried to imagine what the test would entail. A number of unpleasant scenario presented themselves, each less appealing than the other. His recent heroin trip was still very fresh and despite a history of drug abuse he knew that if the next test he would have to undergo involved more drugs he would have the greatest difficulty to climb on the wagon again, not to mention the fact that he would loathe himself even more than he already did, or that his brother, let alone John would help and forgive him.

It was not something he had any say in but Sherlock knew that they wouldn’t see it that way.

_‘That’s good. Good deduction, Sherlock.’_

_‘I will not fall again, you know that, John.’_

_‘Hm. Heard that one before. Falling is your speciality, after all.’_

_‘I would not. Not willingly. I only want to come back.’_

_‘What makes you think you would be welcome?’_

_‘Stop taunting him, John. I’ve been there before, I’ll be there for you again, brother mine.’_

_‘Why don’t you just snap me back home and clear my name?’_

_‘Oh, Sherlock. If you had not answered to Moriarty’s lunacy and decided to join in his game – ‘_

_‘I was bored.’_

_‘Yes. Look where your propensity to get bored led you.’_

_‘Hm, to Tibet, didn’t it?’_

_‘I did tell you to stay out of it. You know Mummy is very upset.’_

_‘Mummy’s always upset, according to you.’_

_‘She is, yes. We both know that she has every reason to be upset. You are the reason she is upset, Sherlock.’_

_‘Just adding my two cents here, but she’ll have even more reason to be upset. What with the upcoming test.’_

_‘Not helping, John.’_

_‘I’m sorry, your Highness. Can I propose an alternative plan to your current predicament?’_

_‘John – ‘_

_‘Flee. Escape. Hide.’_

_‘I’m not a coward.’_

_‘No. And neither do you live for suffering. These days are over, brother mine.’_

_‘Who said I did? It’s not my fault it follows me.’_

_‘Oh, quit the drama and come back to reality already!’_

_‘John…?’_

_‘You heard me. Living in your head won’t help. You must take action.’_

_‘It seems the military man is the most suited to give you advice,’_ approved Mycroft. _‘Heed it,’_ he added, emphasising with a turn of his umbrella as he left.

_‘There. You know what to do now, Sherlock. And you call yourself a genius…’_

_‘I do, yes. Thank you for the advice, John. I expect to be back shortly.’_

_‘Do,’_ he said before leaving abruptly.

 

When night fell next, Sherlock started off. He was aware that his movements were followed and tried to use the cover of the night. However, he found himself to be out of luck: it was night time indeed but the moon had decided to shatter the shadows, offering a bright light. Sherlock should have known that. _If only I had gone out to appraise the weather. Or checked a lunar calendar of some sort._

_‘You would have if you had not been so wrapped up in your drama.’_

_‘Shut up, John!’_

_Well, let’s start running._

He had not gone far when he heard agitation behind him. _Let the game begin._

He heard people calling after each other, calling his (made up) name and - barking. _Ah. That will make it more difficult._

The hunt had begun and he was the prey. The party chasing him sounded as if it were a large one. He would defeat the odds and escape even if it were the last thing he would do. _And it probably will._

Sherlock started off in earnest, looking for a pond or a stream to set the dogs off his scent. Running in a rugged terrain was difficult but when it was covered in snow, hiding the traps and dangers, it appeared to be even more dangerous and made the descent even more perilous than the climb had been. He did find a stream and effectively set the dogs off-track. Relieved and confident the chase was now over, he adopted a slower, more careful pace. He was not one to care for nature and although he could appreciate it he failed to see what anyone could find appealing in it.

_‘But you did for the stars.’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Why?’_

_‘Don’t be obtuse.’_

John apparently started to sulk and Sherlock continued on his way at the same pace. He continued for several days with the occasional scare that they were catching up with him. As much as he tried, they never did seem to lose his track completely. He tried to quicken his pace so as to arrive to a city as quickly as possible and leave the ragged mountain path behind. Lhasa was the nearest city but it was in the opposite direction to where he wanted to go. It would however be easier and less dangerous for him to head in that direction than keep on going in the right one through a harsh and steep terrain.

 

The hounds’ keen sense of smell and his own inadequacy in the wild made his capture unavoidable. He heard them approach but couldn’t see his former colleagues from the Dzins closing in on him, Skotina in the lead. Even if he could fight off a few persons on his own, his sharp reflexes were not enough and could not help in a fight against large numbers. The threat of firearms did not make it easier for him; it did however make his capture easier to his pursuers. A blunt blow to the head with the butt of a weapon rendered him unconscious.

 

Silence was all he could hear. Darkness was all he could see. Blood was all he could taste. His face and his whole body had been so beaten up that he could no longer smell or feel anything.

 

‘Schpraga, or Shual, or whatever your name is, you have proven to be a lying rat and an embarrassment to your fellow criminals. We want to know who you’re really working for.’

‘The Hatter,’ replied Sherlock suspecting that this kind of defiant, derisive and disrespectful answer would earn him another beating. He was right.

‘Another lie. Can’t ever be real, can you?’

‘Reality is like time: it varies and fluctuates from one person to the next.’

Sherlock received another punch to the stomach.

‘Now don’t get clever on me.’

‘I am clever.’

‘Or cocky.’

‘I have one.’

‘Yes, you do. Although rumour has it that you can’t make good use of it. Wonder who started it, eh? Skotina. Skotina who you betrayed, Schpraga.’

‘ _Whom_ you betrayed.’

‘You’ve got nothing to say? Let’s see what you’ll tell us,’ said the torturer as he got an iron bucket and showed it to Sherlock.

‘Right. Lie down. Get comfy. Go on. Oh, and look! A few of your little friends, you filthy, disgusting rat!’ he shouted as he held a large fat rat by its tail and gently put it on Sherlock’s stomach. ‘Wonder if you’ll let him in or start talking,’ he continued as he put the bucket over the frightened animal.

Sherlock was not a total imbecile. He had caught on what sort of torture this would be. He had no intention of suffering, but however opposed to anything too Queen and Country and however much he might mock John for being patriotic, he was loyal to his country and would not betray it.

_‘How quaint.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘You are. Queen and Country.’_

The man approached him with a small torch and circled the bucket with it. Sherlock clenched his teeth.

‘I think the little guy’s getting a bit warm in there, don’t you? Ah yes. Well, he’s wanting to escape already? Can’t blame ‘im, really. Tell you what, I’ll give you a little reprieve – and a bath. How does that sound, eh? Ah, thought you might like the idea. Alright, there?’ he asked putting the flame away and the bucket off him. ‘Ah, scratches. Can’t have that. You’ll need some treatment for that. Who knows where that rat had been, eh?’ He took it again by its tail. ‘Tut, tut, Mr. Ratty. Where are your manners? You must knock before entering somewhere, not dig your way in. Here, let me give you a hand,’ he said clutching Sherlock’s forearm to help him up. ‘So. A bath and then to bed, yes?’

_This man is insane. Or plays madness really well._

Sherlock started breathing normally again. As normally as it was possible under the circumstances, at any rate.

‘I’ll let you catch your breath properly now, and then you’ll follow me. These wounds need tending to.’

He was then led to a room which looked like a classic, non-threatening bathroom. Steam was rising from the tub which was already filled with hot water.

‘It’s not scalding hot, but you will need to be careful. We must first clean _these_ , Shual.’

‘Who – ‘

‘Guess.’

‘I can’t hear properly. I can’t do anything properly.’

‘Well then. Looks like _I_ will have to clean you up.’ The voice had dropped significantly lower. Sherlock felt shivers of terror. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’ He briefly closed his eyes.

‘Sonam, I take it.’

‘Bull’s eye. Well done. You can’t say ‘no’ this time, pet.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘And you can’t leave. Escape. You’re mine. Mine to do as I please, Shual.’

 

***

 

Sherlock was brought to yet another room so he could rest. He had absolutely no idea how he had arrived there nor who brought him there. When he had realised _and_ Vierhovnii were here he had started to feel he would know every one of his captors and torturers but he was now too shocked to register anything or anyone anymore.

When he entered the room, he vaguely noted that the absence of any furniture would not make for a comfortable rest. _Then again, I had worse._

He was led to the middle of the room. Shackles were dangling from the ceiling. He then realised he was shackled with the chains to the ceiling.

‘Sleep tight. The sleeping amenities are not the best, granted, but I’m sure they’ll suit you just fine.’

 

The room was dark. There was no electricity, no candles, not even a hole to let any light in. He was alone. Alone in the silence. Alone with himself.

Hurt all over as he was, one could think that he would not feel any more physical pain yet he did feel the chains straining on his arms, his shoulders, his shoulder blades. It hadn’t seemed so terrible when he had first entered the room. He had relished the idea of being alone. Then as he realised he was shackled to the ceiling it started to sting and to progressively hurt. No one could hurt him, that was true. But as he started thinking he realised that being alone was not likely to be intended as any kind of reward. Although he had access to his Mind Palace again, memories of his past actions were running free.

_‘You don’t respect the rules, William. Mother and Father are very mad at your misbehaviour. They always will be.’_

_‘No. I’ll make them proud.’_

_‘No, you won’t. See where you are, look at what you’ve done, Sherlock! You had me provide a body for that fake death of yours. You’ve betrayed your friends; you’ve lied to them just so you could deal with things in your own way.’_

_‘Yes, a sociopath. That’s what you are, indeed. That’s the only thing on which you didn’t lie when I met you 5 years ago.’_

_‘And high-functioning at that? Clever, Sherlock? Haven’t I told you how boring you were, how ordinary and common you were?’_

_‘Although not ordinary for the neighbourhood. We do get all sorts but never one who’d fire guns in the flat, play dreadful violin at odd hours or turn the kitch- no, the whole flat into a biohazard area.’_

_‘No wonder you never had any real friend, always pushing people away, lying and using anyone who tried to get close…Poor John must be beyond grief.’_

_‘He’ll get better, Sherlock darling. A cold, socially inadequate, awkward virgin would never be that important to anyone.’_

_‘Not even to yourself, apparently, William. You’ve always been such a disappointment.’_

_‘Stop! Please!’_

_‘Shhh, Sherly, it’s okay. Just get down, deep down where it’s so dark you can only sleep.’_

_“Shut up! Leave me alone! You’re all lying! You’re…you’re…’_

_‘Not even there? Indeed. Look at that. The little boy has voices in his head. And he talks to those voices. The little boy has gone cuck-ooooo…!’_

     Such were his nights. He was almost happy to hear the lock to his room being unlocked in the morning. He did not relish the pain but it was in his considerate opinion preferable to mental torture – especially one conceived by his own brain. The only encouraging feature in his nightly ordeals was John’s absence in the taunting, belittling, degrading attacks.

He did not come to his defence – why would a figment of his imagination do so when every…when _he_ attacked and degraded himself? – but at least he didn’t take part in these psychological assaults.

 

He underwent cruel, violent interrogations on a daily basis and the rat torture a few more times – his torturer let the little rodents scratch and bite at his skin deeper and deeper. Sherlock was certain that he had felt on one occasion the rat biting inside him. He had needed real rest for a…for some time and someone took particular attention to treating and dressing his wounds.

After every nasty interrogation session he had, a silent –  _No, mute. More reliable. Can’t go babbling about everything they see and hear in there –_ person would apply some soothing balm, or even dress a clay plaster on his wounds.

He was given a bath fairly regularly, he assumed. For some unfathomable reason, Sonam was always the one to bathe him. The frequency with which these happened was vague to Sherlock’s mind: after a while, the terrible sleeping conditions he was forced to bear started to make the passing of time blurry.

As if sleeping with his wrists shackled to the ceiling thus straining on his already hurt muscles were not enough, Skotina came in his room and offered him a choice.

‘'ello there, babe. Ah, ye were more pretty when we first met. But anyway. I’ve come ter mak' ye a proposition. No, not _that_. See, we need real answers. But we’re givin’ ye the choice in how ye’ll give ‘em.’

‘What makes you think I would ever help you… _сука_?’

‘Oh oh, ye still got teeth, eh? Don’t worry ‘bout that, darlin'.’ She looked intently at him, fixing her gaze on his.

‘That choice, then. Drugs. That’s the first one. Ye’ll love it, _мудак_ , it’s pure, white heroin, one that’ll make ye see starry night sky in sunny afternoon.’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ she pouted. ‘I was so certain ye’d a' leas' be tempted. That’s disappointing. Second choice, then. Instead o' sleepin’ like ye do – ‘

‘How could that be made more of a torture?’

An evil smile grew on her lips and a malevolent glint shone in her eyes. ‘Ye don’t. Ye’re still shackled, it’ll be the same wrenching pain, but ye’ll be standing on a brick. And ye must no' stop standing on that brick or the little questionin’ ye’ve had will appear sweet to you.’ She came closer and caressed his cheek. ‘Ye’ll wanna sleep on it, eh?’

‘No, only sleepless nights for me now.’

‘Which choice?’

‘I’ve just told you. I’ll take the sleepless nights.’

‘All right. Ye sure, though? Only I know what ye lot are like if ye don’t have yer sleep.’

‘Yes, I am.’

 

Sherlock was extremely aware that several sleepless nights would not do him any good particularly in his present state. However he was intent on not doing drugs again. He had made a promise.

After a time – _Short? Long? Don’t have the foggiest idea_ – the only thoughts he had were to complete the mission to get back to John and London, and to keep his promise. He had quit the pretence of the Work a while ago at least consciously. He had been aware when he took his fall, even if he didn’t acknowledge it, that his intention was to return not only to the Game but also and above all to John.

His intent was so strong, so powerful that it kept him sane during all these hours and days and weeks – _and probably months as well. I don’t know. –_ on his own, alone with himself.

 

On one unspecified day after yet another uncomfortable night, Sherlock was forced to eat something – ‘Ye can’t have yer belly grumbling, sound’s disgustin’ – and taken to meet with someone apparently important, someone who could presumably – and who might do just that, given the chance – force him to answer. From what he had heard along the way, Etô Neheroth was exceedingly sly and cunning. Despite still being _somewhat_ sane and in control of his mental abilities _humpf, barely_ , Sherlock knew that his psychological and physical exhaustion would not be in his favour in a contest of wits.

_‘In any contest, Sherlock. You’re not in a fit state to do anything.’_

_‘There’s only so much one can do when heavily sleep deprived – not to mention drugged, brother mine.’_

_‘The great Jim has vanquished you, Sherlock Holmes. Surely you’re fiiiinally seeing it, now?’_

_‘He’s cleverer than you. He’s beaten you, and his dead.’_

_‘And so are you, by the way. Dead. Intended as a disguise on the pavement, but – ‘_

_‘– Disguise is always a self-portrait.’_

_‘You were already dead when you fell. Did you really think you’d come back alive? Did you really think you’d come back at all?’_

_‘And you think yourself so clever, don’t you? But everyone is stupid, so stupid, even you.’_

_‘Didn’t notice your hands had been shaking for days now, did you? Tut, tut, young man. You really must pay attention to yourself.’_

Vierhovnii had taken a certain number of people with him: he didn’t take betrayal well at all and Sherlock’s time in the gang had been nothing but this. The more people he brought along, the less risk there’d be for Sherlock to escape.

‘I’ll take it from here, mate.’

‘Oh, all right. I’ve no idea why Etô Neheroth wants to see the bugger –

‘- It’s none of your business and the fact he’s been called should be enough.’

‘Oh it is. It is. I was just saying. But yeah. Happy to let you go on with it: seeing Etô Neheroth gives me the creeps.’

‘It’s just as well then.’

‘Oh yes, it is! Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

 

Sherlock’s first guard left. When the newcomer was certain he had gone away far enough to be out of earshot, she turned to face Sherlock and extended her hand.

‘Sibyl Pitt. It is an honour to finally meet you, mister Holmes, sir.’ It took Sherlock almost a full minute to come back to reality and realise he was not about to meet who he had guessed to be Moriarty’s right hand. _‘You never guess, huh?’_

‘My pleasure. I’m afraid – ‘

‘Take a look and tell me what you see.’

_Ah. Aware of my deducing abilities, knows my name, knows what I was doing otherwise she wouldn’t be here, said ‘I’ll take it from here’ but only people who are on a mission use that expression._

‘Hm. I see that Mycroft decided to place that mission onto other people’s shoulders.’

‘Mister Holmes, it was – ‘

‘Oh no, don’t. Don’t tell me anything about that mission. Country’s security. I understand. I assume I can go home, now?’

‘Why of course, mister Holmes! It’s prec– ‘

‘Not a word. Thank you.’

 

Sherlock left the corridor he was in without any other word. He walked purposely as if he knew where the exit was – he obviously didn’t roam about the lair at night as he was too tied up to do so.

However, despite all the torture and exhaustion, he had managed to keep his brain working through compartmentalisation – having a Mind Palace he _could_ enter _was_ handy in that case. He had not exactly been using it quite as he used to but rather would shove every traumatic experience that happened to him on that mission in a special airtight room which he would then lock and throw away the key, the key-code and the cypher that opened it so they wouldn’t impact on the rest of his mental abilities. There had been nothing he could do against the lack of sleep.

_I’ll…I’ll have to owe Mycroft. That’s… I’m going home. I’m going to see John again. At last. Oh._

Sherlock stumbled to the ground, his breath caught in his throat, the beating of his heart ringing in his ears. He knew it was not very dignified to do so but he chose to stay on his knees until his breath had returned to normal and the beatings of his heart at least stopped being erratic.

It was just as good that so few people used that exposed corridor because he had to stay there for quite a while.

_I had not expected my reaction to be so strong._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Сука (sooka): bitch  
> Мудак (moodak) : asshole


	11. Back to Square One

A light breeze blew on dead leaves which then swirled in a ballet of beautiful, warm colours. The pavement was not as banal as common. _Better red leaves than red liquid._ The air around should not feel cold – it was only early autumn, a bright sun was still shining and there were people in the streets enjoying some fresh air; in the limited sense of ‘fresh’ that applied to London.

Despite the beauty presented by the leaves in the wind, despite being back in a city he loved, Sherlock felt a heavy weight inside of him. The light outside was like an aggression to him. So were the people smiling and chatting happily audibly making projects, unaware of his plight.

 

He was back in London. Had told Mycroft everything that he had discovered, not a word on his ordeals, went into withdrawal in one of his bolt-holes in Islington – his name not having been cleared yet, going to a proper rehabilitation centre was out of the question. He knew there were things only _he_ could have observed and no matter how many of his employees Mycroft sent undercover it would take them much more time to obtain a piece of all the information he had gathered. He _knew_ that he had been useful, very useful to his country. Etô Neheroth and Moriarty’s network was as good as dismantled: it was only a matter of time until Mycroft dealt with the menace.

It was absurd that he should feel so empty; yet he did. He had yet to see John, his precious, beloved John and be part of his life again as he had been.

But he was still so…Sherlock Holmes was no master of his emotions anymore, he did not control them as he used to. While he had been proud of his brain and intelligence, he had the feeling that his Mind Palace had rotten while he had been away and what was tamed had taken over, wreaking havoc to his very soul. Of course, he knew that he could still use the memory technique and it had helped him stay sane when he was tortured _not succumb to madness is more accurate, although that was a close one._ But he could not use his brain as he used to before the Fall.

What he considered his best two qualities had been reduced to smithereens and he...

_‘Afraid to be rejected, Freak?’_

And then there was the small matter of the voices he heard. They had more or less always been there although not that frequently. He had tamed them. _Apparently not properly. They keep coming back. I really need to – John!_

His eyes had fallen on a middle-aged man whom he recognised instantly. The clothes were different. He did not chose his own clothes. They had been chosen by someone who lives with him. _Has he gone living with his sister?_

The attitude he had was the same as when they first met – that of someone to whom nothing happened and who just went floating through life. His back was slightly hunched and the limp Sherlock had cured on their first night was back stronger than ever.

_John. A soldier. A fighter…to be in such a bad shape…What happened to you?_

‘Can you not deduce it, brother dear? He is in the same state of mind as you are. He has been for quite some time now. As per your request, we have a team of people watching him. He has got a steady position. Doesn’t do locum work anymore.’

‘And a girlfriend,’ observed Sherlock as he saw John meet with a woman he embraced and kissed.

‘Mary Morstan. We don’t have anything on her. She doesn’t pose a threat.’

‘Yet he’s not happy. His limping is back and worse, his movements are unsure…he doesn’t go into her personal space…much,’ he added after several minutes of observing the couple.

‘What then is your deduction, brother dear?’

‘Something is missing in his life.’

‘It would seem so, yes. However: whatever you intend to do, try not to act impulsively.’

Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft looked at him like a parent of enduring patience would a reckless, stubborn child. Sherlock sighed.

‘Fine.’

He observed the couple who were still talking on the pavement. _Are they going somewhere? Are they waiting for someone else?  A common friend, perhaps. Mary Morstan. I wish I could say that you take good care of him…_

From afar, he saw John initiate contact and take her hand. He said something and smiled. Sherlock turned away.

 

His feet led him to a shady area in Brixton but he didn’t linger and returned to Islington. He had a large quantity of candles there and lit them all. He sat and started thinking, reflecting on what he had done and what happened to him since he had taken his fall. That was two years ago. Sherlock had held onto one thought only to come back. Now that he had, he wondered whether it was a good idea at all.

He remembered perfectly John’s calls to God and the plea for him to stop being dead made to his tombstone, both driven by intense sadness _despair._ Would John be happy at all to see him again or would he turn away?

When he had laid eyes on him earlier that day he had seen a broken man. But that broken man had taken a decision and smiled: he had not lost his self-confidence, nor had he succumbed to despair. It was unlike Sherlock not to take any action, yet he decided to let things run their course. He would, however, monitor them. He needed to see John, even from afar, even without talking to him.

As days and weeks went by, Sherlock noticed how John’s figure had improved. He always observed him from a distance – spying on people _with cameras…_ that was his brother’s way of ‘keeping an eye on people’. He wouldn’t do that, even less as he knew what John’s position on the subject was.

It was not ‘a bit not good’ to follow one’s dearest friend to know how they were and ensure their safety and well-being, was it?

 

He would often disguise himself and follow him, walking with him from a distance to his workplace, once in a while creating a little excitement so that John’s spirit would lift and he’d feel needed and in charge even before going to work. Often he considered visiting the clinic as patient. A disguised patient, obviously.

 _The more I see him, the better he is. Of course, the limp is still there but I can hardly abduct him and put him in a dangerous situation just so he’d feel better. Well. I_ could _._

_‘Bit not good, Sherlock.’_

_‘I know. That’s why I’m not doing it.’_

He continued to observe John from afar. _‘How can you even consider showing your face to him? A murderer like you should not even be alive.’_

_‘I had no choice, I swear. I had to…I had to if I were to come back.’_

_‘You should have found another way.’_

_‘The corridor was so small. They would have seen me. Sounded the alarm. Sent me back to my cell. Tortured me.’_

_‘So you killed them.’_

_‘I had no choice.’_

_‘And you expect John to forgive a murderer? You expect to be able to look John in the eye? Do you really think John would be happy to know that you lied to him, that you had not killed yourself but willingly became a criminal, willingly became a murderer? And when he learns you did it all for him, how do you think he will react, exactly?’_

He had a number of longer self-castigating episodes that would leave him exhausted for a few days. On such occasions, the siren call of old habits was frequent and strong _Not so old, not so old..._

But as ever, the thought of disappointing John even further kept him from going on a chase in Brixton.

He suffered, but he did not seek oblivion.

 

John may have been improving but something about him still didn’t feel right.

The limp of course wasn’t right, but there was something else he could not quite pinpoint. He only knew that he needed to help John. To help John. He realised that he would have to take action. That he would have to meet him: even he could not help if he didn’t know what the problem was. He could not deduce it.

He decided to visit John. _Well, organise a meeting. John could not know who he was meeting with, not really. It would not be a lie. Not entirely._

_John would not ignore a summon by my brother, would he…? John did not seem to hold Mycroft in a very high esteem. Or would it be too obvious?_

He didn’t like the idea of revealing to someone else than John - _say, George or Mrs. Hudson –_ that he was alive. His hands were tied.

He could not go to Mycroft for help, rejected the solution of going to Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson for help…He would not have him put in mortal danger just so he could save him and reveal himself to him – although _this_ held quite a bit of appeal: John would focus on his being alive rather than on his feelings… What could he do? Had he been a violent person he would have thrown a fit and quite possibly objects as well. _Who could help me? Who would?_

 _Molly. Surely she would help me once more. But what reason could she use for such a meeting? They don’t see each other anymore. I was the reason they were in contact. Meeting with Molly would trigger bad memories in John, no doubt._ It wasn’t his intention to upset John. He would not willingly upset him again. Pigs would fly before he would.

 

John continued visiting him in the cemetery. He had probably been told that it was a way to help him grieve. How could visiting and standing in front of a stone help with anything? Despite all his watching him, Sherlock had not seen Mary Morstan accompany him on any of his visits. He always went on his own and whenever he did the place was empty. _Cemeteries are never full. Not full of living people, anyway._

 

After John had finished his shift at the clinic he took the Tube and stopped at West Brompton station. He could have walked from Earl’s Court station but between his patients and the chilly autumn weather he was tired and probably coming down with something. He did not even think of postponing his weekly visit. He had not missed – or thought of missing – any visit in the last two years. This was an appointment nothing and no one could make him miss.

He had started dating Mary six months before, started living with her two months ago and begun a couple relationship in earnest a few weeks after that.

Yet something was still missing. _Someone_ was still missing and the only way he knew to feel somewhat better was visiting his l- _friend._ _Late, lying friend_ , a voice in his head amended.

As always, John ignored it. He didn’t need his brain to make him feel worse. His emotions were enough for that and there was no amount of British stiff upper lip that would help.

He arrived in front of the tombstone.

‘Hello, Sherlock.’

‘John.’

_That hasn’t happened in a while._

‘Miss me?’ came a deep voice next to him.

He hadn’t perceived any movement as someone had taken place next to him.

 _Now_ that _hasn’t happened before._ His chest tightened.

‘John? Say something.’

‘Impossible.’

‘John, I…I know you’re in the right place but don’t drop dead.’

John’s tightened fist connected with Sherlock’s tombstone.

‘Why?’

‘Well, I – ‘

‘After all this time. I _waited_ for you.’

‘I – ‘

‘Shut up. Don’t say a word.’

‘John, I – ‘

Sherlock was interrupted by John’s undamaged fist hitting his solar plexus. He was breathless.

‘Not a word,’ he growled. He had hit his friend. His friend who was still alive. He held him as Sherlock was still bent forward, catching his breath, careful not to move. He felt that Sherlock’s body had tensed. But he was right to stay still: any sudden movement could shatter John’s resolve to remain calm.

‘You are alive, then. I’m not surprised. I have had plenty of time to think about that day in these _two years_. That was low, even for you, Sherlock. I trust you’ve enjoyed your time away.’ Beneath him Sherlock was even more tense. ‘I hope you’ve got used to being on your own. I don’t want to see you again, Sherlock. Leave me out of your life. Don’t try to contact me or see me again. Disappear.’

 

Sherlock looked at John to only see determination written on his face. He left, defeated, the bottom of his coat billowing around him as the wind engulfed him. The impassive mask he had put on again to make John _and myself_ believe that he was all right and that everything was back to normal slowly cracked. A lone tear came down his face.


	12. Lies and Consequences

John did not see Sherlock’s defeated figure retreat. He was too absorbed in his anger at having been lied to and too focussed on how glad he was of knowing he had been right: Sherlock _had_ pulled a magic trick on him and everyone else.

He was furiously angry, of course, but he was mostly overjoyed at seeing him back again, at seeing he was all right. His insides had clenched when he put his eyes on him. The hole inside him was no more. His world had been put back on its axis.

He might not have the same observation skills as Sherlock but it was evident that he had gone through traumatising experiences. They had left traces all over him: in his shielded, nothing-happened attitude, his stance, his eyes. He had most likely tried to hide said traces as best as he could but John knew better. _You cannot fool me, Sherlock._

The prospect of being reunited with him and the fallout it implied daunted him. Sherlock had lied to him, rejected his care and his help, left him behind for no apparent reason but he did not deserve whatever it was that he had been put through. No one deserved such a treatment.

For the moment though, he would have to return to Mary’s place. Suddenly it didn’t feel like Mary and his place. Only hers.

_What can we deduce about your heart?_

 

He pushed the door to the flat he shared with her and was welcomed by the smell of sweet cuisine and his girlfriend’s warm smile and embrace.

‘Evening, love. Did you have a nice day at work?’

‘Yes. Well. It was a long day.’

She patted his arm. ‘Aw, dear. It was a hard day for me. Christine called in sick, Lucy’s on maternity leave, Jeremy arrived late because of transport, George had to take his Mum to an important appointment and Sarah had to stay home to take care of her youngest. He’s caught the flu, from the sound of it.  All in all, they were only three of us on the team. And the clinic swamped… Can you imagine? Twice the work with less than half of us to do the job!’

‘Well at least you didn’t watch time pass by incredulously slowly.’

‘Why? Were you going somewhere?’

‘Pint with Mike, yeah. You know me too well.’

‘Hm. I don’t know what was in that pint but you don’t look very good, honey.’

‘Thank you for that… I just need some rest’

‘Are you sure you just had a long day? You look positively dreadful, John.’

‘Yes, I am, Mary. What reason would I have to lie about that?’

‘Well you’re a man.’

‘Haha.’

‘Sorry,’ she said without sounding very sorry. ‘I don’t like seeing you sick.’

‘I’m not having fun either.’

‘Of course you’re not. Go have some rest then.’

‘Sorry about dinner.’

‘I’ll bring you some.’

‘That sounded awfully sexual.’

‘What if it was?’

‘No, I don’t feel up to it tonight, Mary.’

‘Oh. Rest and I’ll bring you a bit of dinner.’

‘You’re too good.’

‘I know.’

 

 

John went up the stairs to their shared bedroom, leaving Mary fussing about dinner.

He hadn’t expected to react so strongly to Sherlock’s return. The first few weeks after Sherlock had jumped, John had only been driven by despair. His sleeping and eating patterns were heavily disturbed: he lived off tea and the occasional apple, barely slept, ridden by insomnia and nightmares as he was; those he so often had when he met Sherlock came back and some new ones arrived, seeping through his daily routine. He was haunted by Sherlock’s fall.

He stayed shut in the flat, outright refused to see anyone and gave Mycroft a few punches in the process.

Then one day he opened a book belonging to Sherlock – it was out of the question that his belongings were thrown away – and his eyes fell on a particular sentence. _You’ve been told. But did you only listen?_ His first thought was that Sherlock had probably thought the sentence clever. It was very much the same as his _you-see-but-you-don’t-observe_ catchphrase, after all. However, as his reading progressed, he stumbled more and more often on sentences and words which were so very much like what Sherlock would say that he started to be very intrigued. On the final page was a note. _When you have eliminated the impossible, _whatever_ remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Think. -SH._

It took him a few days to heed the advice of a dead man. But he did and came to the conclusion that Sherlock must have done what he had said: he had presented him with a magic trick, an elaborate one for which he fell. From that moment, the note read _When you have eliminated the impossible,_ _whatever_ _remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Think. -SH._

_Believe. -JHW._

He found his eating and sleeping patterns improving, he socialised more but not too much. He had understood that Sherlock had a plan, and that it must not fall through. Everyone he knew still believed him to be grief-stricken but that his pain was receding and not as acute.

One thing never changed: when Sherlock was still ‘alive’ he would endlessly talk about him so much so that everyone else believed he had fallen for the mad genius. After he had jumped, he never talked about Sherlock to anyone. He didn’t talk about Sherlock to the cat-loving woman he dated and whom he considered his significant other.

Thinking about it, he had no idea why he had never told Mary anything about Sherlock. He had b – _was_ an important part of his life. And Mary… well, he _had_ chosen to be with her, to live with her and to have a proper relationship with her. He, who couldn’t keep a girlfriend. He, whom so few people could live with. _Ella must have been right on those ‘trust issues’._

No, he really had no idea why he had never told her about Sherlock.

He had heard countless of times his so-called friends and his ex-girlfriends complain about Sherlock, make awful comments about him and generally pitying John for having such a terrible flatmate; sometimes even suggesting that Sherlock was manipulating him into keeping their arrangement. The most popular theory about that was that he was blackmailing him into it.

None of them had understood why the pair of them had got on so well. They could not, _would_ not see what it was that was so fascinating about Sherlock. His disregard for the rules, legal or social, did not prevent him from helping the police – quite the contrary, it made him better. His relationship with people was essentially chaotic but those who had been close to him could attest to him having great warmth and intense emotions. Granted, these people were far from being numerous but it was just another proof of how careful he was in choosing to place his trust and how guarded he was.

His extraordinary brain and extensive memory - although he had chosen not to… _how did he say that?_ ‘clutter his brain with knowledge for the masses’ deserved admiration.

The man should be praised, not scorned and rejected for being different from everyone else.

He seemed to have chosen to follow the example set by his brother, alienating himself from others because _caring is not an advantage._

                John simply wanted to keep Sherlock to himself. Even if he was conscious that he and Mary should be _– were –_ a real item, something in him was reluctant to the idea of sharing Sherlock.

The more he thought about it, the less angry he was at Sherlock. He supposed that he had had his reasons to be so… But he would be damned before he had a heart-to-heart conversation with Sherlock about that. He was certain that his detective felt the same… but that did not make him want to know _why_ any less.

_Ah, Sherlock. What am I to do now?_

 

Mary had noticed that something was different with John when he had come back to their flat and it frightened her. It was the first time he had openly lied to her – there was no way having a pint would put him in so dreadful a state, especially as she knew that he used to keep whisky in his living-room before they shared a flat.

She knew that there was something that John was not telling her and she was fine with it as long as it didn’t set them apart. Everyone was entitled to having their own secret garden.

 

Union Chapel echoed with strong, powerful music. Sherlock was swaying in time, in rhythm with the music, candlelight reflecting shadows on the wood panels of the walls associated to the sanctity of the place gave the situation an even more dramatic atmosphere. The emotions he was experiencing were of a deep, very deep sadness. He had been forsaken. Abandoned. John had rejected him. Told him not to contact him again. John was so stubborn that this statement could only be final. He meant it. _I am never to see John again._ His heart had been broken, torn apart. _Again_. _By the same person I entrusted him with. Even if he didn’t…even if I didn’t tell him anything._

Sherlock was glad that John had understood that he had not really committed suicide that day…

 _But if he knew I was alive, why was he so upset to see me…?_ He admonished himself. He had _known_ that John would reject him: there was no valid reason to be so sentimental about it. _John’s words had been so harsh…And so casually said…Why am I so affected?_

He remembered his own words from a lifetime ago. _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

These words were true then and still were, even more so. He was devoured from the inside, his heart ruled his head. He was not of any help to anyone in such a state. Useless. _I’ve always been so useless… I need to get rid of these sentiments._ But a temporary release from these constraints would not be of much help. He needed to cut, detach himself from them permanently. _How should I proceed? How did I do it in the first place? Did I do anything in particular?_

A temporary escape from the emotions raging inside him might help him see things better. He would be able to focus somewhat. Unlike emotions he could deal with such distraction. He had done so countless of times.

_John would not approve. But John never approved of anything I’d do. Nor would Mycroft. Rubbish, nosy big brother._

Sherlock knew that he would have to deceive him once again but that should not be too much of a problem: he had had ample practise throughout the years. Of course, Mycroft had learnt to see through his act. But even Mycroft could be fooled. If he so much as _thought_ that something was out of the ordinary in Sherlock’s behaviour, he would send him away for his own good out of brotherly concern. _Maintaining appearances has always been so important to him._

Mycroft would not see, not even _suspect_ that anything was amiss: Sherlock’s will not to go would be motivation enough. John would not see anything either. _John doesn’t care. He has rejected me, even before I had time to explain anything. John would wan – would have wanted to understand. A lifetime ago._

 

The music he was playing had come to an end. He walked over to a far corner of the room and retrieved something from a cache.

‘You have to leave.’

He began a preparation with what he had taken which he then put in a syringe.

‘You must leave. Disappear.’

He put the tourniquet in place.

‘Fade.’


	13. Not What It Looks Like

‘I suppose it’s not what it looks like…’

‘John.’

‘Anything to say?’

‘I… John, I…’

‘Mycroft was right.’

‘I’m – Mycroft?’

‘"Tonight is a definitive danger night." He was right.’

There was a minute of silence before Sherlock spoke again.

‘It’s an irritating habit of his. Sorry to disappoint.’

John looked at him expectantly.

‘In view of the evidence, I am not the smartest man in the world.’

‘But the most exasperating out of the two of you.’

‘Oh no. That has always been Mycroft’s speciality. Always minding business that was not his to – ‘

‘I’d say his meddling was a good thing in this case,’ John cut him more sharply than he had intended to. His voice became softer ‘Don’t you think so?’

Sherlock looked ashamed.

‘What can I do to help?’

‘Wh…Why would you want to help _me_?’

John shrugged. ‘Don’t fancy your brother kidnapping me if you don’t get better.' Sherlock found the strength to chuckle.

‘Nobody likes that.’

John’s face grew serious. ‘The real question is why wouldn’t I?’

‘I…’ John felt that this could be the essence of the problem. He might not have been involved on the other side of a therapy session but he _was_ Sherlock’s friend.

‘Don’t answer that. Not right now. Now please, put that dreadful thing away,’ he said poiting at the syringe he still held in his hand. ‘And put some clothes on,’ he added, looking pointedly at Sherlock’s naked chest. ‘You must be freezing.’ Sherlock opened his mouth but John cut him short. ‘And if you’re not, well…It’s your doctor’s order,’ he finished, locking his eyes to the broken man’s in front of him.

Sherlock was broken in more ways than one, it was even more evident with nothing to cover his torso. Even if he had on occasion glimpsed him without the protection of his clothes, he had never seen his friend look so fragile, so vulnerable. Quite the contrary. Sherlock stood motionless, shame and fear in his downcast eyes. John was appalled to see him so distressed at something he had said. He swore silently and vowed never to put his friend in such a state again. He picked up a discarded, unbuttoned shirt and handed it to Sherlock.

‘Here, put this on and come with me. I’ll take care of you.'

Sherlock tensed and recoiled.

‘Hey, what brought this on? We need to get you to a familiar place. Where there are no temptations around.’

‘No, it’s not a good idea. Being alone there would be worse.’

‘What are you talking about? I’m coming with you. Don’t worry, I won’t let you go through this alone. I’m not going to let you down. So: Baker Street alright with you?’

‘But you’re not – ‘

‘Everything’s been taken care of. Come on, let’s get you home.’

Sherlock stood still and looked disbelieving. It didn’t take a genius to understand that Sherlock feared to be alone in Baker Street.

‘No. I am not leaving without you, Sherlock,’ he said, gently pushing him.

 

The car John had come in arrived in front of their formerly shared flat fifteen minutes later.

‘We’re home.’

The place was silent.

‘Mrs. Hudson is away.’

‘Hm. I suppose we have your brother to thank for that. All right, get settled, I’ll put the kettle on,’ he declared as they entered the living room. ‘Now, Sherlock,’ he added when Sherlock did not show any intention of moving. Sherlock took off his coat and went to sit on his armchair.

_John. He came for me. And he hasn’t left. It’s almost as if… I hope he hasn’t seen. But he told me to put a shirt on. He wouldn’t have, before. If he has...what must he think of me?_

‘Here’s your tea,’ John said before settling on his armchair as well. They sat and sipped their tea silently.

_He doesn’t want to talk to me. Understandable. Unsurprising._

‘Now that you’re back, what will we do?’

_We?_

‘Consult again, once Mycroft has finally cleared your name?’

‘What else is there to do?’

‘I thought you might say that. And in the meantime?’

‘Depends on how long it takes. But I would like to – ‘

‘Yes?’

‘Oh, nevermind. Why are you here, John?’ he asked softly.

John seemed taken aback by the question, as if he had understood the deeper meaning Sherlock was thinking about. _Why are you here, in this flat, with me after everything that I’ve done to you and when you have another, a better place to be?_ Sherlock did not want to ask about Mary. He didn’t want to know. But he knew that he would have to eventually.

‘I think I need something stronger if we’re going to have this conversation,’ he groaned as he got up to the cabinet where he knew Sherlock stored liquor a lifetime ago. _Not unwilling to answer, John? Ever the soldier…_

‘Do you? ‘

‘Please.’ John hesitated. ‘It won’t trigger anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘Of course that’s what I’m afraid of!’ he shouted. He turned his back but Sherlock could still read frustration and anger in his posture if not his face.

_Disappointment. That’s what I am._

‘You’re under no obligation to stay if you don’t want to, John.’

‘Of course not. I want to.’ He downed his glass and took another. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘John – ‘

‘What happened to you,’ he turned around and gestured in the general direction of Sherlock’s stomach. ‘I was not here.’

Sherlock looked incredulous.

‘John?’

‘There must have been a good reason for all that.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘But I’m here now. If you’ll have me,’ he added after a pause.

‘I’m sorry. John, I’m sorry I had to leave you behind.’

‘Why?’

‘It was for the best.’

‘Really. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

‘Hm. Perhaps not entirely.’

Silence settled and wore on. In the distance, the bell of a nearby church struck midnight.

 

***

 

‘John. What are you thinking about, love?’

‘Mh. I think – ‘

‘Not too hard, it’ll hurt you.’

He shot her a disapproving glare.

‘Sorry.’

‘There’s something I should tell you,’ he said to his mug of tea.

‘Are you sure?’

_Why does she look anxious, suddenly?_

‘Yeah, ‘course I am. Oh. Mary, you… You didn’t think I was about to tell you I cheated, are you?’

‘I don’t know, John. Aren’t you? You’ve been so different lately.’

‘Have I been so obvious?’ he wondered under his breath.

‘So…you don’t deny it then.’ Her voice, usually so strong, was wavering.

‘Mary, I – ‘

‘What have I done wrong, John?’

‘Nothing, Mary. Nothing at all.’

‘Then why…why did you – ‘

‘Mary, please. Calm down.’

‘You’re asking me to calm down?’

‘It’s nothing like that! I… here, sit down, love. I’ll tell you everything.’

‘Please, John. Don’t.’

 

There was a knock on the front door. John sighed.

_Timing. You still have to work on that._

‘I’ll, I’ll get it, Mary.’

‘Is it her? It’s her, isn’t it? You’ve brought her _here_. In our home.’

‘Not exactly. Get that silly idea out of your head.’ He bent over to kiss her cheek.

‘Now I’m silly,’ she whispered as she turned away.

John stood back and sighed.

‘Please, Mary. I won’t be a moment.’

 

‘Hello, John.’

‘Sherlock. I’m happy to see you as always. But now is not a good time.’

‘You said – ‘

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, then. Let me in.’

‘Yes, John. Let him in. it’s not polite to ask a visitor to stay outside.’

‘Mary Morstan, I presume. Pleasure to meet you. John told me a lot about you.

‘I’m afraid you have the advantage here, Mr. …?’

‘Oh, Mary. You don’t have to be so formal. This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.’ A look of surprise came over her face. ‘Now let’s go in. Much better to talk inside.’

 

‘You have a lot of explaining to do, John Watson.’

‘I’m sure even John could sum it all up quickly. If he avoids his usual flourish.’

‘Sherlock. Alright, why don’t we all take a seat? Mary, you’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes?’

‘The famous detective whom you assisted. And who died a little over two years ago. How – ‘

‘So you know the basics then. Good.’

‘Sherlock, please. Behave.’

Mary looked at John as if she’d never met him before.

‘When we met, Mary, I… I was going through the motions. At least, that’s what I pretended to be. In part, but still. My best friend had killed himself in front of my very eyes. I’ve lived in torment until I realised – ‘

‘Cut to the chase, John! Please,’ he added after he shot him a stern glare.

‘Until I realised he’d be back eventually.’

‘So you were just pretending? Pretending to be sad, pretending to _grieve_?’

‘Not _completely_ pretending. I _had_ been abandoned and left behind.’

‘But if you hadn’t you wouldn’t have met me.’

John smiled.

‘All for the best.’

Mary blushed. ‘What happened after he came back, though? I suppose you’ve been with him but – ‘

‘He has. Constantly.’

 _Please Sherlock. Create more drama in my life, why don’t you?_ John shook his head.

‘Not what it sounds like.’

‘But he’s right. You were with him constantly and not with me. At all.’

‘Problem?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. You can’t imagine – ‘

‘Try me.’

‘Oh please. Don’t. Either of you. Mary, you know I’m a doctor – ‘

‘He’s brought me back to life.’

‘Did he, now?’

‘Stop it, both of you.’

‘Certainly. If we could move on to the reason of my visit.’

‘Glad to, yeah. Mary, I know you may find it difficult to come to terms with this but…if you wouldn’t mind…you can say ‘no’, of course…What I mean is – God, this is ridiculous...ridiculous and terribly embarrassing –‘

‘No, John, I… I don’t mind. If it makes you…happy…then yes, John.’

‘You don’t even know what I was going to ask!’

‘I do. And well, John…if you – ‘

‘Mary. Before you go any further please tell John what you mean.’

_You’re saying ‘please’, Sherlock?_

‘Oh, he knows. I…don’t mind. Much’, she amended when Sherlock threw her a doubtful look.

_What the hell?_

‘First of all I am there and I can hear everything you say. Second, I am NOT gay.’

‘Yes, John, you’ve been terribly vocal and clear about that. You don’t need to repeat yourself. It’s tedious. So, Mary. Do you agree to let John come with me when there’s a case on and I need him?’

‘Wh– _that’s_ what you wanted to ask me?’

‘You look incredulous.’

‘That’s because I _am_. Are you out of your mind, John? I mean, I agree and there’s nothing that would prevent you from doing so if you set your mind to it anyway but…Are you _sure_ that’s what _you_ want?’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘I’m _still_ here, you know.’

‘It’s settled then. John, I’ll let you explain the details.’

‘Sherlock,’ John said as he was about to leave. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

He considered for a moment.

‘No, I’m not.’

_Some things never change._


	14. Escaping the chains of domesticity.

            Before John had introduced Sherlock to her, Mary had suspected him of leading a double life with another woman. He had, in fact been, but contrary to what she thought, he had been with Sherlock, his best friend – and their relationship was not of a sexual nature.

After John had told her, she had been relieved and her relationship with him was more relaxed: she did not try and follow him everywhere he went nor was she harassing him with text messages. Instead she went out with her friends more often.

She teased him now and then – especially when Sherlock was present – about having a toe out of the closet, implying that she knew he wouldn’t go any further. He laughed, until he had seen the unguarded look of pain and desperation on Sherlock’s face as she had said so.

Sherlock’s eyes had met John’s and he’d left. He hadn’t doubted for an instant, that he had carelessly let his mask drop and that John had seen the evidence, connected the dots and come to the only possible conclusion.

John had gone after him, most likely to ask for confirmation of his conclusions, tell him it was fine and that he was sorry.

 

‘Some things are better left unsaid.’

‘Some things are better shared,’ John had replied.

 

Sherlock had accepted John’s comforting words and gestures. Even if John never acted on them, he knew that there was more to his words even if he did not acknowledge it.

 

Time passed and Sherlock healed while John and Mary slowly grew apart. It was there for all to see even without Mary’s constant complaints about it and John could have hardly cared less. He had survived because that was what soldiers did, they carried on.

Then he’d met Mary. The first six months of their relationship had been rainbows and roses, both of them engrossed in the other, back to their teenage years when they’d been attached to the other’s hip.

Until Sherlock had returned and things began to change.

 

         John had kept Sherlock to himself. Dead or alive, he did not want to share him. He had been...distressed when he had seen Sherlock again but that had quickly passed and Old habits that they had created together returned as if there hadn’t been any interruption.

The two men shared as many things as possible with the quiet understanding that John’s girlfriend should not be made aware of it.

John often returned to the flat that he shared with Mary claiming that he had had an exhausting day. And when he arrived late, he’d say that he’d been seeing his mates over a pint. He’d once told her that he’d been abducted to an unsavoury location, rescued by the police and decided to treat himself to Italian cuisine. She had told him there were too many details for that to be true.

He did give her truths. Incomplete truths, but truths nonetheless. He was not cheating. He did not lie, but he did not want to share everything with her.  
Gradually he’d begun to wonder whether he’d ever been in love with Mary.

 

 

Mary was not fooled. She checked, she followed – up to a point. She knew that John saw Sherlock regularly – they’d asked for her permission and she’d given it.

In hindsight she might have been too quick to do so, relieved as she was to learn that John was not cheating on her.

_But he was, wasn’t he?_

It might not have been cheating in the traditional sense, but that was what he’d been doing all the same. Distancing himself ever so slightly, lying about his whereabouts...and the increasing lack of intimacy, concomitant with her foolish permission.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong and it irritated her to no end not to know how to deal with it.

 

***

 

            John sat up. Lying next to him, Mary’s body was tense. She had shown clear interest in a physical encounter. Had been rather insistent, in fact. He had rejected her interest, as he had in the last few months. Even though he had tried to reciprocate, she had decided it was forced and resented him for doing something he did not really want to do. As the number of their physical encounters dwindled, she resented him for not committing to their relationship – and reproached him on that very subject whether or not an audience was present.

Not wanting to stay in a tense and bitter atmosphere, he left the bed and mechanically prepared himself a cup of coffee. For some reason, he found that coffee did not agree with him anymore. He put the cup aside and prepared a cup of tea instead. Tea, he could always handle.

He went through his usual morning routine faster than on a normal day off, and left the stifling atmosphere of his flat.

            He took the Tube to Moore Gate and made his way to Silk Street where he stayed for a few hours before taking the Tube to Baker Street. He let himself in, made his way up the seventeen steps into the living room where he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock reading lying on his stomach, his bare back exposed.

He’d never seen Sherlock without wearing anything less than a t-shirt – on the rare occasion he’d slept in – since he’d resurfaced in his life. He understood why Sherlock had become so self-conscious and mindful of wearing clothing at all times. He cleared his throat. Sherlock made no sign indicating he had heard him. He tried again, this time pretending to having only just come up the stairs; he was once again met with no reaction. John resorted to the only action he knew would get Sherlock’s fixated mind back in reality. He moved briskly into the room.

 

      Alarmed by John suddenly entering the room, Sherlock looked up alarmingly and sat up, nearly jumping out of his skin.

‘John.’

‘Sherlock. Don’t,’ he said as his friend’s eyes focussed on him. ‘Not today. Please?’

‘Pass me my shirt.’

John looked around the room.

‘Any particular one?’ he asked, shaking his head as he went to Sherlock’s room.

‘Here. I’m making tea, want another?’

‘Hm. Thank you.’

‘So, how’s the book?’

‘Hm? Oh. Yes. Loath as I am to admit it this fiction is rather interesting.’

John snickered. Rather _interesting. Liar._

‘Would never have thought I’d see the day where the great Sherlock Holmes would say that.’

‘I’ve come to realise that these can be useful in broadening my understanding of human nature.’

‘Human nature?’

‘Crimes are committed by human beings.’

‘Oh? So you’re gathering information to get a better grasp on motives –‘

'So I can solve crimes more quickly, yes.’

‘Why the hurry?’

Sherlock shrugged.

‘Why not?’

‘Sherlock. In the past, I was unable to read you but I can now. You’re hiding something. Spit it out. Why the hurry?’

‘Just in case.’

‘In case of what? Oh my God,’ he breathed after a short pause.

‘What?’

‘Have you gone … careful?’

Sherlock scoffed.

‘Scared?’

Sherlock huffed.

‘What happened?’ he repeated.

‘You know _what_.’

‘Not all of it.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Care to elaborate?’

 

When Sherlock had come back into John’s life, the first few weeks had been difficult, subjected as he was to unwanted, intrusive thoughts and memories, convinced that John could be real and forgiving. He persevered, John remaining by his side.

Sherlock had come to think that there was a good chance they would eventually rebuild their friendship, if only under different parameters. John had a girlfriend and he’d resolved to stop interfering in his life while away. She would have to be taken into account.

Soon, however, it transpired that the parameters of their friendship would not have to be as altered as he’d initially thought. It appeared more and more unlikely that John would contemplate leaving him.

 

‘Sherlock?’

‘Later.’

‘Why? You know I’m not going to leave.’

‘Why is it so important?’

‘No, it’s – I figured since I was here...’

‘You saw something that made you want to know more.’

John met Sherlock’s eyes unflinchingly.

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Is that tea ready?’

 

***

 

          Steady hands opened the door to John’s flat in Lambeth. Silence surrounded him. The flat was dark but for the light in the living room.

 

‘You’re home late,’ Mary stated from the sofa where she’d been sitting. She had visibly been waiting for him.

‘I know.’

She put her book aside, stood up and encircled his waist.

‘I barely saw you today.’

‘Sorry,’ he disentangled himself and walked into the kitchen.

‘It was your day off, wasn’t it?’

‘Got called in. Last minute fill in,’ he replied, his voice an automatic monotone as he picked up a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.

‘Tell me about it?’

‘Give me a moment.’ He added another large finger of whiskey into the glass.

‘I’ve been better.’ Why say anything else? It was painfully obvious. He rarely drank, and when he did – there was an emotional reason behind it.

‘What happened?’

‘Too many things.’

‘You don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No.’

‘John...’

He poured himself another glass of whiskey.

‘Go to bed, Mary,’ he rasped.

 

          John had a crippling hangover the next morning. He stayed in the living room, curtains drawn while Mary went to work. He’d texted his boss to tell her that he would be unable to come to work for personal reasons. He had received a text back asking if he needed anything. ‘Personal reasons’ did not have the same meaning at 30 and at 41 with a history of depression.

He wanted to turn back time. He closed his eyes and slept forward.

 

***

 

‘What?’

‘You heard me, darling. We need to go out. Get some fresh air.’

‘Yeah, I heard that. I meant what led you to that conclusion?’

‘Oh, John,’ she took his hands and kissed him. ‘ We don’t do things together anymore.’

‘Maybe there’s a reason for that,’ he grumbled. She gasped, looking horrified.

‘What did you say?’

He sighed. ‘Think about it. The honeymoon phase is over, Mary. Nothing to worry over,’ he shrugged.

‘Well it’s not – it’s not a reason to let routine settle in!’

‘Suppose not. No, you’re right.’ _Damn, I’m tired._

‘So, where do you want to go?’

His response was immediate.

‘Baker Street.’

‘Er – okay but there’s nothing there. Well, there’s Madame Tussaud’s –‘

‘No. Too many people.’

‘Yes, sorry. I didn’t think.’

_Clearly._

‘So what do you wanna do?’

‘Sherlock.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘There’s Regent’s Park near Sherlock’s.’ _And I want to see him._

‘Yes, then. Let’s go there,’ she replied as she eyed him carefully. ‘We should go visit him after,’ she added.

‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Let’s do that,’ he repeated, his eyes shining more brightly. ‘Thanks for suggesting it.’ _And if you hadn’t I’d gone to see him anyway._

‘He’s your friend and you haven’t seen him in a while,’ she reminded him.

‘Yeah...Yeah, that’s true enough.’

‘Why wouldn’t I have suggested it anyway?’

‘Because I wasn’t sure you liked him.’

‘Silly. Go and get ready,’ she said as she left to room , probably to get ready herself.

‘Mary?’

‘Hm?’

‘Just how long do you think we’ll be in that park?’

She laughed as if his question were ridiculous.

‘Oh, John. It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Yes. And?’

She rolled her eyes.

‘From 2:13 pm to 6:23 pm,’ came her sarcastic reply.

‘Right. Let’s go, then.’

‘You’re not taking anything with you?’

‘I’m sure you’ve taken everything either of us would need,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m just taking myself.’

 

     Hey. Are you in Baker Street this afternoon?

     Unless a nice murder happens and the police need me. -SH.

     Or even better if an interesting case proved to be the work of a serial killer -SH.

     Is it all right if I come by?

     Obviously, John. -SH.

     Mary insists on coming as well.

 

Sherlock’s answer did not reach his phone as quickly as the others.

     The more, the merrier. -SH.

     Are you OK?

His phone stayed silent.

 

Mary found them a place under an oak tree, the sunlight piercing through its leaves, birds chirping, squirrels running past them, unafraid of their presence.

She took a blanket and put it on the grass, beckoning John to sit next to her. She sighed, contentedly, as she rested her head on his shoulder, her body pressed against his.

John closed his eyes, his mind drifting away to exciting adventures, gradually falling asleep.

Mary was putting his phone back into his jacket when he opened his eyes. The sun had barely gone down.

‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, the tone of his voice accusing, even if he didn’t have anything to hide, the idea that she had gone through his phone as if he did was irritating, to say the least.

‘No, not really. You’ve got a text.’

John all but jumped to read it.

 

     6th January is supposed to be merry. -SH.

 

_God. I knew it._

‘Mary, listen. There’s something urgent –‘ he started, words tumbling from his mouth.

‘More urgent than spending time with your girlfriend,’ she barely tried to cover the disappointment in her voice.

‘Yes. See you later, Mary.’

 

           John had always loved coming home to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin – whether he was composing or idly playing the strings. The two years that had passed when they had been away from each other had not changed this.

‘Sherlock,’ he announced himself.

‘John,’ he whispered. ‘Where’s Mary?’

‘I’m sorry.’

Sherlock stopped playing. ‘About what? You have no reason to be.’

‘I should have – I didn’t think.’

‘John, you might think you’re making sense, but even I can’t find meaning to verbless sentences.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Sit down? Please?’

‘I can’t play as well if I’m sitting. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do’ he took Sherlock’s instrument in his hands, using the bow to indicate that he should sit in his chair.

‘Today you sit and listen, Sherlock. Happy birthday,’ he declared as he carefully placed the violin under his chin, his eyes locked to Sherlock’s.

 

The music he coaxed out of the instrument was far from perfect – he had started learning how to play eight months before, first as a way to help alleviate his grief, fill the hole Sherlock had left. After Sherlock’s return, John had considered this activity as something he could share with him, the idea of learning a piece for Sherlock’s birthday slowly making its way in his mind, even if he didn’t have the slightest idea when his birthday was.

When he had fully committed to it, he had practised on Silk Street as often and for as long as he could.

He didn’t close his eyes when he played, . The soldier in him needed to constantly be aware of his environment, the practical man in him needed to see what he was doing, and the caring friend he was needed to see how Sherlock reacted.

 

Caution had registered on his features when John had taken the Stradivarius and placed it delicately under his chin, followed by surprise when he had placed the bow on the strings and started to play. Pleasure had then illuminated Sherlock’s face, he had understood that John had learnt a new instrument, considered by many to be a difficult one to master, so as to play a specific piece _for his birthday._

Sherlock had been wary when John had taken his beloved Stradivarius and tucked it under his chin, wondering whether or not having he was having a hallucination of some kind when he had placed the bow on the strings as if he had been about to start playing. When John had placed his fingers and the bow on the strings - _not been learning for long, posture not sure yet_ \- and coaxed a music he had not heard for decades since he had started playing, Sherlock felt his eyes focus on John and his ears on the sounds he was pulling out of the violin which he must have learnt – _because I was gone. Because he needed me._ A cloud of regret and sadness was settling on his face at the thought. _He’s had to learn all sorts of genres to have that much practise in a short time. Why learn lively pieces and play one today? Oh. He did tell me. He still needs me._

A strangely warm feeling had grown in his chest as he listened and watched John playing, not making a single mistake throughout the piece, keeping a light pressure on the chords for maybe a little longer than necessary as he locked his eyes to Sherlock’s, rendering Sherlock absolutely incapable of moving.

Cars were passing outside, people talking as they walked on the pavement, a dog barked and a baby started crying as drivers expressed their discontent.

Sherlock’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.

 

‘Thank you, John. That’s –‘ he cut himself short, not knowing how to express his feelings.

‘I never knew when your birthday was.’

‘Now you know.’ _Can you play for my birthday every year?_

‘I hope you didn’t find it too distasteful’ _Next year will be better._

‘Not in the least. It was an excellent gift. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Tea?’

‘Tea,’ he acquiesced as John went to prepare it.

 

They sat in companionable silence, a steaming mug of tea next to both of them.

‘Sherlock, do you suppose –‘

‘Yes, of course.’

Sherlock’s answer before John could formulate his question made him chuckle. It was a beautiful sound.

‘Ok, how did you know?’

‘You’ve just demonstrated to me you had endeavoured to learn how to play the violin – and succeeded. Since you and I have been sitting in front of each other you’ve repeated a cycle of alternatively looking at my violin, then the door, then me, then my violin.

I assume that the idea to learn came to you while you were near St Bart’s and you went to a music shop on impulse where you bought a self-teaching guide and a second or third-hand violin for you to practise on. However you soon realised that such an enterprise could not be attained on your own and that you needed someone to teach you. You came back to the shop where I presume you were given the contact details of one. Wherever the lessons take place must be away from your flat in Lambeth but at a reasonable distance from your work. Doing something you enjoy brings a surge of endorphins. It’s highly unlikely you would be willing to return to your flat without practising more. Baker Street is not that far and offers you the possibility to play the violin with someone you know and trust. You wondered whether I would be amenable to teaching you.’

John chuckled.

‘As brilliant as ever. One thing, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s not only your playing I enjoy.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’re repeating yourself, Sherlock.’ A comfortable silence settled, soon broken by John’s exclamation of ‘Cake!’

‘John?’

‘Sorry, it’s just – cake is kind of obligatory on birthdays and I didn’t even think of bringing you one.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not my brother.’

‘No, of course not! But you do have a sweet tooth. And it’s – well, it’s traditional.’

‘I do, don’t I?’

‘We should go get one.’

‘For the both of us? Would that be wise, Doctor?’ Sherlock teased.

‘Well, no. But it is your birthday. The perfect excuse for you to do everything by going the extra mile.’

‘The both of us?’

‘You have the right to spend it however you wish, eat whatever you want –‘

‘I already do that, John,’ his tone amused.

‘- and spend it with whoever you wish.’

‘Can it be you?’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘You are. But Mary?’

‘”Something’s come up. Sherlock says it’s a 9, at least. Be back later. Love you.”’

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, eyes like saucers he looked confusedly at John.

‘Text I’m going to send her,’ he explained.

Sherlock stayed silent.

‘Yeah, you’re right. Should drop “Love you”. She’ll know that there’s someth … She’ll know it’s not entirely true.’

‘John?’

‘Mh?’ John was already busy typing the text.

‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

 

 


	15. Change and Wonder

Sherlock was regularly thwarting any attempts she had at having a date with John and she resented it, resented him but her desire to make her relationship work and her refusing to lose John prompted her to make sure that she be included in John and Sherlock’s friendship.

Consequently, whenever Sherlock came unannounced she went out of her way to make him feel welcome and appear in a favourable light to John who did not seem to see it for what it was: a way to watch him and undermine him all the while asserting her power over and possession of John’s heart.

She’d laugh when she was expected to and didn’t miss any opportunity to put a possessive hand on him, or to create any such opportunities. She view them as something she was entitled to provoke to protect what was hers and ensure it stayed so. 

She was the embodiment of possessive jealousy, her smiles didn’t reach her eyes nor did her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Surely John had noticed these tells and that she held herself as a predator ready to pounce on her opponent would.

 

***

 

John had invited her to have tea. He’d made an effort and selected smart clothes, carefully did his hair. He’d instructed Sherlock to stay out of it and not crash this particular date. He didn’t care how Sherlock usually found out where and when Mary intended to take him – he was only relieved that he did.

But not today. Not for this one. It was important that he be on his own. He’d told Mary to meet him where they’d shared a cup of tea together for the first time.

 

She entered the place, wearing the same clothes she had that day. He saw her face brighten when she saw him in a freshly ironed shirt and comfortable jeans. She waved at him and walked in his direction.

_Breathe, Watson. You’ve faced worse in battle._

He smiled at her. She bent to kiss him but he turned his head at the last second, aware that he would see hurt in her eyes. He refused to make any kind of excuse and pretend it had been some kind of  mishap, of bad coincidence .

This was going to be an unpleasant moment, but he had made his choice long ago. It had simply taken a long time for his conscious mind to acknowledge what this choice was.

Mary’s face had gone ashen, distress evident not only in her eyes but also in her tight face and slumped posture. Her smile had faltered. Her clouded, shiny eyes showed she was on the brink of tears. She knew what was going to happen.

She sat opposite John, leaning onto the table to support herself – she evidently didn’t trust her legs to do their job at this time.

She swallowed, cleared her throat discreetly and swallowed again.

 

He gestured to the waiter and asked for a glass of water. They’d order tea later if Mary was still inclined to having anything remotely as trivial and domestic as a cup of tea with him. He was about to break her heart but he wanted to limit the damage as much as possible.

‘Mary...’

‘I was convinced you’d asked me here for a specific reason.’ She was attempting to speak in a steady voice. ‘And that it was important. I mean, _you_ asking me on a date when we haven’t – for months,’ she cut herself off, laughing nervously.

John understood he was not about to break her heart but that he’d already  _just_ done so. He realised belatedly what Mary must have had imagined.

‘”All for the best.” That’s what you said.’

‘I know.’

‘Why?’ She was doing her best not to openly cry.

‘We’re not happy. _I_ am not happy.’

‘Are you really trying?’

‘I have. I’m not happy, Mary.’

‘I can make you happy,’ she insisted, her voice breaking.

‘No, you can’t. You...you’re controlling and jealous. I need more than insecurity, Mary.’

‘John –’

‘No, listen to me. You’ve been good for me, in the beginning. But we never really clicked.’

‘Are you seeing someone else?’ she burst, violent sobs shaking her body.

‘Jesus! There we go again. That’s not the subject. And tell me, what exactly would be the point in telling you? If I said “no” you wouldn’t believe me and if I said “yes” you’d think I admitted to it too easily and that you might still have a chance, provided we dealt with the issue. 

‘John, please –’

‘I’m sorry you thought whatever it is you thought and that it took me a while to figure things out. But I’m not happy, Mary.’

‘Has it got to do with –’

He held his index finger, putting it in her face warningly.

‘Don’t complete your sentence,’ he enunciated slowly. God he was tired.

‘I’m not going to ask for your permission. I’m not happy,’ he repeated for the umpteenth time. ‘I want out, and I’m out.’

Tears were running freely down her face.

‘Excuse me,’ she said as she went to the loo.

_What do I do now? Do I wait for her to come back or do I just leave?_

 

‘You’re still here,’ she constated in a weak, teary voice.

‘Yes, well. We’re adults, aren’t we? I’ve said my piece, you have a right to comment on it.’

‘What is there to say?’ she smiled feebly. ‘You seemed to have made up your mind.’

He nodded gravely.

‘It’s over. _We_ ’re over.’ Tears were once again threatening to fall. 

‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course I’m not okay. But I will be. Eventually,’ she sniffled, trying to hold off her tears.

‘Right.’

‘What about you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he replied, the sincerity of his voice visibly hurting her.

‘Oh. What...what are you going to do now?’

‘I was thinking of having a cup of tea with a friend.’

‘No. Please.’

‘Mary?’

‘I can’t do that. Pretend to be friends when I lo–’

‘Mary, I hate to break it to you but you never loved me and neither did I,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Why – ?’

‘And I wasn’t talking about you.’ He had been, but her reaction was a strong indication that even if she did want for him to stay in her life it would not be a good idea. She’d been taken aback by his comment and he knew he was being mean but he had to make it clear to her that she was not the only person in his life.

‘Oh,’ she breathed shakily. ‘Who…?’

‘Sherlock. I want to show him how I’ve progressed.’

‘You’re not – ’ she started, visibly uncomfortable at voicing the idea.

‘On the violin.’ She frowned.

‘You don’t play. I’ve never –’

‘Heard me? You wouldn’t have had.’

‘That’s what you were doing when you disappeared hours at a time,’ she declared, comprehension dawning on her, ‘learning the violin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. John, I ...’ her voice faltered, she breathed in, trying to keep her composure or lack thereof. ‘I’m going to go now. I hope...I hope that you’ll be happy.’ 

She stood up, her legs still shaking. She clearly was not doing well.

John was well past caring. He needed to take care of himself and make up for lost time.

‘Thank you. I wish you the same, Mary.’

She nodded, her face tear-streaked, and made her way to the doors on wobbly legs, her shoulders hunched and her body shaken by bouts of crying: she was making a show of how defeated she was, probably hoping that John would come after her.

He ordered a strawberry flavoured tea and took his phone out of his pocket.

 

Can I sleep at yours tonight?

You know very well you’re always welcome. -SH.

Thanks.

No need. 221B has never ceased to be your home. -SH.

 

John chuckled. Sherlock would be appalled at how much sentiment he showed – even through texts.  _God! I’ve been so blind…_ He laughed softly, relief washing over him.

Sherlock. Please.

Where? -SH.

Amanzi tea, Marylebone.

On my way. -SH.

 

The doors opened loudly. Sherlock was not about to refrain from making a thunderous entrance when John had insisted on his presence. 

He knew he must look frantic, panting, hair dishevelled. He’d run to John as soon as he had asked him to come.

Sherlock scanned the room briefly, narrowed his eyes as he saw John, looking for a hint of  _something._ He found nothing of alarm. John grinned.

‘John?’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Sherlock replied, his breath still ragged. 

‘No, I’m not. Got you here,’ John’s infuriating grin was still firmly plastered on his face, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

‘Quite. Any particular reason?’ He scowled as John nodded.

‘I’m happy.’

‘Why are you telling _me_ that? You know I’m not… sentiment’s –’

‘Not your area. So you said. But you care. I know you do. _You_ know you do.’

‘Yes, I thought it was fairly obvious when I –’

‘You know _I_ do. What should we do about that?’

_What is he talking about? Why is he looking at me like that?_

‘John?’

‘Deduce it, then,’ he encouraged, his arms open in a permissivegesture.

‘You don’t...mind?’

‘I’m _asking_ you to, genius,’ he chuckled.

‘First I have to point out your exceedingly good mood, as evidenced by your near-constant smiling, grinning, laughing and all-around relaxed posture and tone of voice.

You told me to stay out of your date with Mary – and this place is clearly a good spot for romantic rendez-vous to take place. Inference: you took Mary there.

You have been trying to escape the chains of domesticity for some time now. Mary’s not here. And you’re, once again, in your own words,  _happy_ . 

Additionally there are wet traces on the table on the side opposite you as well as tissues stained with make-up. She did not take your decision well.

Conclusion: you have terminated your relationship with her.’

John was still smiling and looking at him...tenderly?

‘Brilliant,’ he breathed. ‘What more?’ he inquired, puffing up his chest. He could have been screaming ‘Deduce me!’ or something of the like. 

 

Sherlock carefully looked at John, taking in his smarter-than-usual attire and the care he’d taken in grooming his hair and shaving – electric  _and_ blade. The deep bottle-green shirt he had obviously ironed in the morning made his eyes stand out and suited his sandy-blond hair well. The close-fitting shirt was a vast improvement compared to his usual almost shapeless clothes and he appeared comfortable in it. The pair of jeans as well as the pair of shiny shoes he’d glimpsed enhanced the sense of ease he meant to display. Classy and comfortable. Considering his whole attire, there was only one conclusion that presented itself.

‘You did come here with the idea of going on a date in mind.’

John stayed silent but was still smiling.

‘Not with Mary. Obviously.’

John’s attitude didn’t change. Sherlock grew bolder.

‘You meant to _ask_ someone else on a date. Today, here.’

John encouragingly inclined his head a little, his gaze unfaltering. The penny dropped.

‘Me,’ Sherlock concluded. ‘It’s _me_ you want to ask on a date.’

John nodded firmly. ‘Yes. Sherlock Holmes, will you do me the honour of accepting to be my - ’

‘Yes. Do you really have to ask, John?’

 

***

‘Your room is still waiting for you. I told you that Baker Street was your home as much as mine,’ Sherlock said as they entered the living room.

‘I was hoping you’d say _your_ room was waiting for me.’

‘You’re not gay,’ Sherlock reminded him, letting pierce how hard these words had been on him every time John had uttered them. John looked remorseful.

‘Sherlock. We are _dating_.’

‘Yes, we are. But you’re not inter–’

‘I’m interested in _you_.’

‘I – Are you sure you want to share…?’

‘Yes. Kiss me.’

_What is happening? He’s looking impatient now._

 

Sherlock walked to him and tentatively put his lips on John’s who pressed them more firmly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s long neck and the other on his waist, urging him closer.

_Focussed and hungry_ , Sherlock thought as John took control, the fingers of his right hand pressing hard into his hip, grounding him in the reality of the situation and asserting his want, his desire to claim him.

Dry lips on wet, noses bumping into each other, their breaths mingled. Sherlock pressed his lips to the corners of John’s who in turn detailed the contours of the Cupid bow lips with the wet tip of his tongue, both hands to Sherlock’s lower back, holding him in place, closer.

_Wants me. Not imagining it_ , his mind supplied as a growing tangible evidence pressed against his own obvious interest in the proceedings.

John pressed his tongue more firmly against Sherlock’s lips, asking for permission to lay his claim further.

Sherlock gasped softly, overwhelmed by the feeling of John’s hands roaming slowly over his back, body pressed against him, the specific indication that he was committed to their activity steadfast against him.

He could taste tea and a lingering flavour of strawberry just as smells of the city and cheap detergent had filled his nostrils, now replaced by an increasingly musky fragrance.

He let his mouth be claimed as John worked the suit jacket off his slender frame and, as it fell to the floor, Sherlock’s own tongue found its way into John’s mouth, who groaned and lowered a hand downwards to Sherlock’s backside, grasping and roughly massaging a trouser-clad buttock, pressing their bodies closer together.

‘Sherlock,’ John rasped. ‘Bedroom?’

A disbelieving, happy smile spread on Sherlock’s face.

‘Bedroom,’ he whispered against John’s lips who smiled back and claimed Sherlock’s again, pressing their two bodies towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

John couldn’t keep his hands off him so it fell to Sherlock to open the door.

John continued roaming his hands on Sherlock’s body albeit awkwardly as they stumbled into his room. 

‘I want...’ Sherlock whispered heatedly as John brushed his fingers through his black curly hair with a passion such that Sherlock reclined his head, baring his long pale neck to John’s hungry kisses. He obligingly kissed a wet trail down the skin along the pulsing artery, up the trachea that was vibrating with suggestive moans, down to the flushed chest he progressively exposed.

‘Want you, too. Want to learn every inch of you,’ John breathed, peppering kisses on Sherlock’s body.

 

When he felt his calves bump against something solid -  _my bed_ , his mind supplied – Sherlock lowered himself to sit on its welcoming mattress as John who had divested him of his shirt along the way accompanied him, his kissing hungrier.

Unwilling to break the spell – for surely some sort of supernatural being must have decided to take matters into their own hands for him to find himself under these circumstances, at the mercy of John Watson – Sherlock reciprocated John’s caresses but didn’t dare take initiatives.

Hot breath and a sharp, piercing feeling brought him to focus on the sensations and the reactions John elicited from his body, from goosebumps to a hitched breathing and a surge of blood in his chest and his nether region.

‘Who’d have thought you’d be so _pliant_ in the bedroom,’ he chuckled with wry amusement before putting his mouth on the once smooth stomach, kissing the scars that now marred it. Sherlock turned his head away as if to hide, the muscles of his stomach contracting.

John put a calming hand on his cheek, turning his face towards him.

‘Don’t,’ he commanded. ‘Means you’ve lived,’ he added sedately, soothingly. He resumed his touch, hands exploring stomach, massaging chest, fingers titillating erect nipples. Cooling wet trails on Sherlock’s upper body made him shiver from head to toe.

‘Sensitive,’ John commented, his nose brushing Sherlock’s treasure trail, his tongue darting to trace alongside it, continuing down to Sherlock’s covered erection.

‘Please.’

John pretended not to hear his plea, applying more pressure to his clothed groin.

‘Please,’ he repeated wantonly, all but whining when John straightened up and took a step back. 

‘Lie on the whole bed,’ he ordered. ‘I’m not done exploring.’

‘All of me?’ Sherlock wondered aloud, eyes already half-lidded with pleasure and the anticipation for more.

‘That’s the idea,’ John confirmed, not bothering to hide how much he was affected by the situation. ‘Or should I do that for you?’ he mused out loud before grabbing Sherlock’s lithe body under the armpits and dragging him up on the bed.

Straddling his hips, he bent down to kiss him hungrily.

‘Those lips of yours are distracting,’ he accused. ‘Now, where was I?’

He licked his way down to Sherlock’s crotch, pressing his face against it his breathing hot and heavy.

‘John...’ Sherlock moaned when John’s fingers brushed against him. 

‘Frustrated, are we?’ he replied, fondling him none-too-gently. 

Sherlock canted his hips, driven by one thought.  _More._ He brought his shaking hands down to the front of his trousers before John batted them away and obliged him before bringing his hands under Sherlock’s backside, pulling both trousers and pants down, leaving Sherlock completely naked in no time.

‘Un-fair...’ he whispered as he felt John’s hot breath against his freed, throbbing member. A wet, hot sensation came as John deposited warm kisses alongside him and extended them to the area of soft, sensitive skin between thigh and groin.

‘Unfair?’ he repeated, abruptly kissing his head and taking him in his mouth. 

The hot wetness around him brought a grounding feeling and an explosion of searing sensations as John’s tongue played with the soft skin of his cock. Lost in the throes of lust, Sherlock curled his fingers in John’s still military short hair, urging him to suck with ardour.

John moaned, the vibrations causing Sherlock to shudder and groan, thrusting into his lover’s enticing mouth. He brought a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock twisting his wrist as he accompanied the bobbing movement of his head.

Sherlock’s nails dug into John’s scalp eliciting a stronger, louder moan from John sending Sherlock to thrust in his mouth, hitting the back of his throat.

John felt Sherlock swell in his mouth and decided to stop pleasuring him that way, instead giving wet kisses to the head and sides of his shaft, down to the tender skin of his ballsack.

‘John...’ Sherlock sighed and moaned pleadingly, pulling on his hair and neck indicating he should come up.

‘You’re...still...clothed,’ he groaned. ‘Want to feel you,’ he rasped, planting his eyes into John’s, working the buttons of his shirt off with urgency. 

John obliged him and pulled on the buttons of his jeans sliding out of them and taking his pants off in a swift, practised movement. Sherlock’s shaking yet still nimble fingers dealt with his shirt moving it smoothly off his shoulders, leaving him completely starkers.

Sherlock lowered his hands to Johns waist to pull him down on him. Revelling in the contact of their hot bodies, he grinded against him in strong movements. The slow rhythm of their hips soon had them panting in unison.

John started rocking against him, Sherlock roaming his hands down his back in heated passion until he firmly grasped John’s backside his fingers finding their way to John’s entrance on which rubbed teasing circles making John moan ever more loudly and grasp both their cocks, sliding them against each other.

‘So...good...wanted to, ah, feel you for, ah, so long...’ Sherlock whispered as John moaned from the movement of his fingers and increased the pressure between their stiff pricks.

‘Sherl – wait, ah, wait.’

Sherlock slowed his movements, looking questioningly at John.

‘Need...’

He wrapped his legs around John’s waist and rolled him under his lean yet muscular sweaty body.

‘Mine,’ he groaned bending over John kissing his swollen lips passionately. ‘Mine,’ he repeated in a growl, nuzzling against his neck, grazing his teeth against the smooth skin before sucking hardly to mark him. John pressed his head back into the pillow exposing his neck, offering more of his skin as he arched his body under Sherlock’s who bit harder, a hand on the side of John’s buttock, the other snaking up his chest, stroking, scraping fingernails until he grasped the base of his neck, the pulse under his fingers quickening. John was panting, moaning and unbelievably growing harder under him.

‘No one has the right to take you away from me,’ Sherlock growled. ‘You’re mine,’ he added grunting, looking into John’s eyes possessively, his own eyes displaying obvious heated desire.

He inched towards the bedside table.

‘We’ll need that,’ he whispered before promptly resuming lashing his tongue on John, kissing, licking, nipping and biting, blowing on the wet tracks of his mouthy kissing, running teasing, fingers scraping on the erect nipples of John who’d started whimpering whenever Sherlock ceased lavishing his attention on him for a second too long.

‘Want to know all of you.’

‘God, yes...’ John replied, his voice a moan, a groan, a heady whisper as Sherlock’s mouth kissed his knees, his thighs and around his cock.

He took John’s legs to place a pillow under his backside.

‘Every _inch_ of you,’ he emphasised, kissing the tender, sensitive skin between cock and arsehole, spreading John’s legs as he moved downwards to explore this uncharted, enticing area all the while  stroking him in slow, purposeful movements. John was a quivering mess.

‘Please...’ John whimpered.

Sherlock moved his attention a little higher and engulfed him in one swift motion. John’s breath hitched as the sudden feeling of Sherlock’s hungry mouth on him, his playing, clever tongue around him increased  the sensation of the slow, purposeful twists and strokes of Sherlock’s hand on his prick .

‘Sher...lock...’

He guided John’s hands to his head. As John grasped tightly around his curls, Sherlock moaned sending sparks of pleasure in his swollen cock. He bucked his hips into Sherlock’s mouth who pressed his lips and the ring of his fingers more tightly around him, the movement of his head more ample.

 

Sherlock grabbed the bottle he’d left near and coated a fair amount of lubricant on  their cocks, aligning himself against John and took them both in hand, rubbing the tips against each other, stroking slowly, marvelling at the beautifully debauched sight John bucking under him offered.

‘So good, John… beautiful,’ Sherlock gasped as John clutched his fingers on the sheets.

Arching, jerking against Sherlock, John panted, pleading for more.

Sherlock increased the pace, the slickness of the lubricant mixing with the pre-ejaculate of their cocks.

Violent, powerful spurts of thick hot white discharge  fell on their stomachs and chests as they came together. They had wanted each other for too long to last any longer.

 

Sherlock let himself fall against John, softly kissing his neck and the side of his jaw, exhausted and happy, a content, sated expression on his face.

John gathered him in his arms, pulling him close.

‘That was amazing,’ he declared, nuzzling against Sherlock’s sweaty curls, kissing his temple.

‘Hm, wouldn’t have said it better myself,’ Sherlock sighed, rapturously basking in the afterglow in John’s protective embrace.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s breathing had evened out, his mind blissfully blank.

John seemed to be unwilling to let go of him but grabbed part of the quilt they were laying over and pulled it over them, meeting resistance from their combined weight. Sherlock did not deem it necessary to move or for John to put a quilt over them. He wasn’t cold and knew for a fact that John certainly wasn’t.

‘You’ll have to move eventually.’

‘Mh,’ Sherlock protested.

‘We’ll end up stuck to each other.’

‘Don’t want us to?’

John chuckled.

‘Yes. Not like that, though.’

‘Mh,’ Sherlock commented appreciatively. ‘So do I.’

‘Sherlock Holmes has stopped talking.’

‘Sex. With you.’

John smiled against him.

‘Just sex?’

‘Don’t be tedious,’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘More than that, then.’

‘Obviously.’

‘For me, too.’

Sherlock hummed.

‘I know.’

 

They lay in peaceful silence, John brushing soft caresses along Sherlock’s arms and back.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Just transport. Boring. Ignore it.’

‘You didn’t seem to find my transport so boring a moment ago,’ he teased, poking him softly in the ribs so Sherlock would move. Sherlock sighed and rolled over.

‘If you must,’ he complained as John left the bed. ‘Return to me. Don’t forsake me.’

‘Drama queen,’ John chuckled.

‘Am not,’ Sherlock retorted indignantly.

‘ _My_ drama queen,’ he corrected, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s nose before going to the bathroom.

‘Yours,’ Sherlock agreed, an easy grin spreading on his face.

 

 

Sentiment might not be such a hindrance after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. I hope you had an enjoyable time.  
> I profusely apologise for the time it took me to post the fic as a whole - real life interfered quite a bit and I got utterly side-tracked.
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me what you liked/didn't like. If you like how I write, I encourage you to subscribe: one never knows when the muse would strike!  
> I've learnt of my mistake and I will not publish another fic if it's not finished writing (the one currently in progress notwithstanding).
> 
> Love you all.


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